


The Splitting of the Fellowship

by Doewrites



Series: The Fellowship's Trilogy [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, ヴァ二タスの手記 - 望月淳 | Vanitas no Carte | The Case Study of Vanitas - Mochizuki Jun (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Tragedy, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22393786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doewrites/pseuds/Doewrites
Summary: Following the events at the Witch's temple, the Fellowship has been split into three groups. Riche and Dante who have been taken away to meet the fearsome silver witch.Astolfo, Olivier and Roland who are chasing after them, hoping to find them alive. And finally, Noé and Vanitas who have been tasked with the most difficult task of all: destroying the Book.A Lord of the Rings/Vanitas no Carte crossover
Relationships: Noé Archiviste/Vanitas, Roland Fortis/Olivier
Series: The Fellowship's Trilogy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828513
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. The Throne's Closest Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the sequel to The Fellowship of the Book!  
> Three notes:  
> 1) After seeing chapter 43, I have tweaked The Fellowship of the Book so that Gano has been replaced by Fierabras  
> 2) Though Antoine De Sade has been introduced in canon, he won't feature in this AU  
> 3) In this AU, both Misha and Luca are older than in canon, around the same age as the main cast  
> Enjoy the read!

The bright moonlight’s rays shines onto Loki’s face as he wakes up gasping, his hands clutching reflexively at his sheets. His eyes focus onto the ceiling of his room and he forces his breathing to become regular again, his fists slowly unclenching. He sighs and realises his fangs are extended; was he in danger in that dream? He can’t remember.  
  
He crosses the room and gazes out of the windows. The hills in the distance are dark, the beacons unlit. He sighs. No news from the De Sade Regency then. They’ve been quiet for a while and as much as Loki despises having to interact with Veronica, he still worries.  
  
There’s a _‘thump’_ right outside his door and his fangs extend a bit more. He knows every sound in this castle, from Luca’s eager footsteps to glasses clinking in the main hall to the light hum of the servants’ conversations. This isn’t one of those sounds.  
  
He opens the door and pokes his head out.  
  
_“Surrender.”_ A familiar voice says. He doesn’t get the time to scream.  
  
When Jeanne finds him wandering in the corridor, only ten minutes later, he slumps onto her shoulder, exhausted. He doesn’t know why he came out of his room. A mark in the shape of an upside-down crown slowly fades away from his neck.  


***

Loki’s eyes have changed colour. Jeanne doesn’t know why or how but a few days ago, her king and like-a-brother woke up and was changed. His sclera has become as black as his pupils, his green irises the only splash of colour in such dark abysses.  
  
He’s become passive, his boisterous and somewhat arrogant laughter no longer echoing in the great hall. _Of course, these are dark times,_ Jeanne thinks, _But that’s never stopped him before._ His characteristically sharp smile, though, has turned eerie.  
  
Movement catches her eye as Luca enters the hall. Loki has recently forbidden the access to the great hall to most servants (something that hasn’t happened since his parents died) but being the crown prince, Luca walks about the castle freely. She strides up to him, grabs his arm and leads him back out.  
  
“Good morning to you too.” He tries for a smile but can’t quite muster it up. He’s the youngest out of the three of them, a year younger than Jeanne, he shouldn’t have to go through this.  
  
“Sorry, good morning,” She tucks a strand of her long hair behind her ear, “Have you tried talking to Loki?”  
  
“Not yet,” He shakes his head, “But I plan on doing so now. Have you?”  
  
“Neither have I,” She admits. With the majority of the servants banned from the hall, she has to do their tasks and it’s time-consuming, “How’s Arthur?” He shakes his head again.  
  
“Dust.” The vampire had been Loki’s second in the army (if one doesn’t count Luca since he’s head of the Oriflammes kingdom’s cavalry) until an ambush from the Blue Moon had him grievously wounded.  
  
“Did Lo-?” She stops before she can finish her question: Did Loki visit him? She knows the answer. He didn’t come. Didn’t leave the throne. She sighs and covers her eyes with a hand, refraining the urge to cry. She needs to stay strong.  
  
“Jeanne?” Luca’s voice is young and raw, reminding her of when they were just children and he’d get close to the verge of tears when Loki teased him too much, “Do you think-Do you think Loki’s a curse bearer?” She pulls him into her arms and doesn’t answer.  
  
Luca eventually pulls away and squeezes her shoulder before turning and walking back into the hall. She watches him go, almost incredulous at the fact that he’s willing to stand up to his brother, something he couldn’t do five years ago, too awed by his presence.  
  
Jeanne can only watch as Luca is banned from the city when he speaks up. He stares in shock at his brother who barely glances in his direction once he pronounces the condemning sentence.  
  
“Are you hearing yourself?” Luca takes a step forwards, Jeanne pleading at him to stop through her eyes, but two guards step forwards and grabs his arms. They’re both humans and he could easily break their grips but he knows them well and refuses to hurt them. Nor does he want to turn his punishment into life-long exile from the whole kingdom.  
  
Luca’s shoulders slump and he lets himself be escorted out of the hall. Jeanne turns to Loki, seething, but keeps her lips sealed. She can’t help him if she’s banished too.  
  
Loki’s hands drum the throne’s armrests impatiently as his dark eyes gaze out to the hall without actually seeing. She watches him a moment before looking at the shadow behind the throne. Teacher Ruthven smiles at her in a reassuring manner. Will he try to tip the balance in Luca’s favour? Loki doesn’t always follow through his advisor’s counsel but he always listens and takes it in account.  
  
But Teacher Ruthven doesn’t. Does he think Loki is past reason? She doesn’t know what to think.  
  
She curtsies to Loki and goes to the stables, hoping to catch Luca before he leaves. She finds him strapping on his armour.  
  
“Have you got everything?” She asks him.  
  
“We’re just taking the bare essentials,” She raises an eyebrow at the ‘we’ and he smiles, “My men have chosen to come with me. We’re going to find the ones that attacked Arthur.”  
  
“I’ll hold down the fort.” She smiles despite the urge she has to pressure him into letting her join him. He’d refuse at first but she knows she can make him cave. She doesn’t.  
  
“Everything’s so strange, Jeanne,” He says. She opens her mouth to say something, anything and finds she can’t speak. She shakes her head.  
  
“Your Royal Highness,” One of his men salutes him, “We’re ready to leave.”  
  
“Very well. I’ll be there in a minute” He nods then leans in to press a kiss to Jeanne’s cheek as goodbye, “Take care of yourself.”  
  
“I should be saying that to you.” She reminds him. He smiles at her, eyes filled with worry, and climbs onto his horse. She passes his helmet to him and with a click of his tongue, his horse trots lightly out of the stables.  
  
She watches him and his troops go before turning to go back to Loki. A familiar figure stands at the entrance of the hall. She greets them, blinks and her mind blanks.  
  
The phrase _“You know too much”_ echoes in her ears. A strange mark in the shape of an upside-down crown circling her neck fades away.  


***

Dominique can’t say she’s too surprised when she opens the door to her sister’s room and sees Veronica using a Grimoire. One of the books used to create Charlatan. One of the books that, according to one of Louis’ last letters, Faustina possessed, putting her in direct contact with Vanitas of the Blue Moon.  
  
“What are you doing?” She asks.  
  
“Haven’t you learnt to knock?” Veronica looks at her through tired eyes. Dominique ignores her in favour of repeating her previous statement. Veronica makes a scornful sound, “What do you think?”  
  
“Have you gone mad?” She storms up to her, slams the Grimoire shut and throws it to the other side of the room, “Have you forgotten what this does?”  
  
“Sacrifices have to be made in times of war, child,” Veronica says in the condescending tone she hates, “Something you have yet to learn.”  
  
“Don’t give me that-! I may be the youngest but I’m still the head of the Rangers!” She grinds her teeth together.  
  
“So take them and do something!” She snaps, “Do you think I like using the Grimoire? That I like to be plagued by these visions? We’re already in enough of a bad posture, I might as well use it.” She jabs a finger in Domi’s chest with every word and every time she does, Domi is reminded of how neither of them have had prophetic dreams since Louis’ death. As if his death killed their ability too.  
  
“We have allies! What of the Oriflammes kingdom? What of Loki?” Veronica makes a snarling sound as her voice rises.  
  
“The Grimoire showed me Loki. This is why I despise men! He was weak enough to become a puppet! Grandfather abandoned us for that Archiviste brat and Louis is dead!” Dominique opens her mouth to argue but her breathing wavers and she closes it. She clenches her fists and takes a few deep breaths.  
  
“…Fine,” She says, “I’m departing with the Rangers as soon as possible.”  
  
“Good. I’ll send you a messenger if I ever need you.” As she leaves, she sees Veronica cross the room to retrieve the Grimoire and gaze once again into it. 


	2. The Silver Woods

Faustina’s men don’t stop for one moment as they run, always at the same pace, always with the same mechanical gestures. That’s the main thing Dante remembers when he’s conscious. Faustina’s instructions had been to keep them alive; she hadn’t said anything about not roughing them up.  
  
Dried blood crusts one of his eyes shut from a gash above his eyebrow and his head throbs as if he’s being struck rhythmically with a hammer. His hands are bound around the man’s neck carrying him. Riche and he had struggled as they’d been taken away, leading to their injuries.  
  
_Louis._ The memories gut him and grief tears through him. He manages to not scream though the temptation burns his throat.  
  
He glances to his right to see Riche, wide awake. Her glasses have a crack running through one of the lens; Chloé’s spell must be wearing off. Her clothes are rumpled, half of her hair is hanging over her face and there’s dried blood on the bottom half of her face from her nose but she’s alive and that’s all that matters in the world right now.  
  
She mouths “How are you?” exaggeratedly at him and he mouths back “Fine. You?” She nods, anger burning in her eyes. She wants revenge. Revenge for what’s been done to them. Revenge for Louis, one of the few who’d worked against his own prejudice in order to befriend them. Revenge for Chloé, who’d sacrificed herself for them. Revenge for the rest of the Fellowship, their friends, whom they might never see again.  
  
She wants to destroy them, to make them pay. And judging from Dante’s face, so does he. But first, they need to escape.  
  
Dante points as best as he can with his chin to the astermite brooch on his cape. He starts to pick at it with his teeth, trying to unclasp it without attracting too much attention. She imitates him and eventually, they both manage to undo them.  
  
Dante nods thrice and they spit the brooches to the ground. If anyone’s following them, at least they’ll know they’re still alive. He _hopes_ someone is following them.  
  
Fortunately, their cloaks are still held together by a small chain. The astermite was just decoration. Save for its camouflage feature which, in hindsight, they shouldn’t have thrown away so carelessly. It’s too late to be sorry anyway.  
  
Dante lets out a quiet sigh and tries not to think too hard about the pain he feels in his body. It’s better than being dead, he decides. And if Faustina’s men think one of them have the Book and leave Vanitas alone long enough for him to destroy it-he’s willing to suffer.  
  
But if Vanitas is gone, Noé is too. Which leaves the Chasseurs since Louis-he stops that train of thought and starts again. Which leaves the Chasseurs to be running after them to save them. But that isn’t possible, Dante thinks. The Chasseurs’ first priority is to work to destroy the Book. They wouldn’t come after them. So Riche and he can only count on themselves to escape.  
  
He should be used to the stinging sensation of disappointment biting at his heart yet-he isn’t, is all he can simply conclude. He sighs and closes his eyes in a half-hearted attempt to escape the pain.  


***

It’s evening, near a large expanse of forest, when Faustina’s men are accosted by a group of vampires loyal to her cause. They’re twitchy, their eyes red and fangs fully out. Dante and Riche try to make themselves as small as possible; these vampires don’t look like the type to accept dhams.  
  
“Faustina sent us in case there were…problems. We already hunted a group of those Oriflammes dogs,” One of them hisses, his expression malevolent to the bone. _So that’s where we are,_ Dante thinks, _That’s close to the Tower of the Sun. Too close,_ “I see you’re much less than before.”  
  
The experiments don’t bother answering (Dante isn’t even sure if they can) and prepare camp for the evening. The cousins are set down roughly and worm their way to each other.  
  
“Is your nose alright?” He whispers. She nods.  
  
“Your eyebrow?” He nods back. One of the men sets down dry bread and a gourd of water in front of them. They share it and gulp some of the water down. They keep some to clean the blood off as best they can with their bound hands. The vampire’s eyes flick to them.  
  
“Only two?” He leers, “Faustina said there were _four.”_  
  
“It was either those two or be wiped out but you can go back. Be my guest.” A man with a low monotone voice says. His eyes are blank so he must be an experiment but the way he said it shows Faustina’s spells aren’t completely efficient. Is he going to regain his personality and will or is this his last trace of humanity?  
  
“Heh.” Dante can’t help but laugh a bit at the affronted look on the vampire’s face. The vampire glares at him then sees his eyes, previously hidden by blood.  
  
“They’re dhampirs,” He yells it again over his shoulder to attract his group. They gather in a half circle and Dante curses. Why did they have to fall on the one vampire able to recognise dhams with one look? “Filthy blood. But I’ve heard they taste excellent when cooked.” _They-? They want to eat us?_ Dante leans forwards in front of Riche as if to hide her from sight.  
  
“How cute.” The vampire leers, his arm stretching towards them. The experiment that had challenged him before grabs his arm.  
  
“Mistress Faustina said to bring them _alive.”_  
  
“I never said I was going to kill them, you fool,” He snarls; failing to break free, “It’s not like they’ll need their fingers.”  
  
 _“Don’t. Touch.”_ His grip intensifies and there’s a clear, sharp sound of splintering bone. The vampire howls, reeling back. His group hisses and surround the experiment, keeping low to the ground. There’s a strange drumming in the distance Dante can’t quite make out.  
  
“They’re going to wipe each other out.” Riche whispers in Dante’s ear. And she’s right. The vampires lunge onto the man and are about to rip his head straight off his body when the drumming turns into clopping hooves and a regiment appears, seemingly out of nowhere. They’re dressed from head to toe in armour, meaning- _They’ve been hunting,_ Dante realises, _Probably those vampires. They did say they’d killed some of their men._  
  
The rest becomes a blur to his eyes as Riche and he start to crawl for cover. And by cover, he means the woods. The trees glow almost silver in the semidarkness, lit up by the fire (contained before but now, with the embers spread by the battle, flames lick at the dry grass) and the parts that are still curtained by shadows curl and beckon them.  
  
Riche takes another step (or rather crawl) and something grabs at her boots and tugs. The sudden movement has her sprawl on the grass, almost biting her tongue in half.  
  
Dante glances back. The one grabbing her is one of Faustina’s men. The one that spoke. Half of his body is missing, entrails trailing behind him, and he’s gurgling blood and he’s obviously dying but he won’t let go and Dante feels sick. Faustina’s orders are so deeply ingrained in his mind that he continues to obey them.  
  
No-one seems to be paying attention to them and Dante, assuming Riche will be fine, crawls as quickly as he can to the man’s side, searching for a weapon, something with a blade with which they can cut their bonds. But it’s missing along with his legs.  
  
Riche cries “Watch out!” and he rolls to the side just in time to avoid a horse’s hooves trampling him. Its rider is dead, obviously human since he isn’t turning to ashes. An arrow juts out of from his throat but Dante’s eyes only see the sword still sheathed at his side.  
  
The horse turns back, spooked by something else and when it passes him again, he grabs the swinging reins. The force of it has him pulled to his feet and immediately off of them. It drags him a few feet, the rough ground burning against his skin, before he’s able to grab the rider and slide him out of his stirrups. The body slumps onto him.  
  
He ignores the aching sensation all over his body from having been dragged by the horse as well as the nausea at being face to face with such recent death, his eyes glassy yet wide with shock and pain before he’d drowned on his own blood-He unsheathes the sword-it’s heavy and clumsy in his hand but it’ll do-and saws as best he can through his bonds. They fall apart but not before slicing his skin.  
  
His palms quickly become slick with blood but he keeps a strong grip on the sword and goes back to Riche, keeping low to the ground in case of stray arrows.  
  
She’s managed to free herself from the man’s grip, though has lost her shoe in the process. He appears to be dead. Dante pokes him cautiously with the tip of the sword. He doesn’t move. Dante couldn’t tell, his eyes are as empty as when he was alive-well, when under he was Faustina’s grasp.  
  
He cuts Riche’s restraints and she rubs at her wrists (also nicked due to his unsteady grip) to get her blood circulation flowing again.  
  
They reach the edge of the forest and break into a run. They’re not very fast and it’s unknown territory so they stumble every few steps. Dante’s muscles at him to stop and eventually he does. He doubles over, his hands on his knees, and pants, out of breath. Riche puts a hand on her hip, a painful stitch pulsing underneath her skin.  
  
“Filthy blood!” They hear the vampire from before cry and they duck behind a tree, blanched with fear.  
  
This feels familiar. Too familiar. Familiar as in not long ago before they showed themselves to let Vanitas escape. But this time, there’s no Vanitas to cover. No Louis to save them.  
  
There’s the sound of leaves rustling and sticks breaking underfoot but Dante can’t tell how close or far away he is. His dham heritage has his hearing amplified at the most random times without him being able to control its usage.  
  
Riche grabs his hand, her uncomfortably clammy (though he supposes his is too) and he squeezes hard. They’ve faced hatred before, seen it at the breakfast table every morning, in every glance out of the corner of their eyes, in every hushed whisper behind closed doors-but never like this.  
  
He’s almost too aware of how warm and sticky their blood is, coating their palms. Can the vampire sniff them out? Or are they safe? He saw what they were at first glance, he can probably smell them too.  
  
He gulps and his grip on the sword tightens. He has to protect Riche. She’s all he has. If he hadn’t told Vanitas at Teacher’s birthday that Teacher was leaving, maybe none of this would have happened. He’s aware his reasoning is ridiculous (Chloé had been the one to figure out the Book’s true identity) but he can’t help it.  
  
More twigs breaking. Closer. His hearing’s probably of the normal kind then. He holds out the sword in front of him. If only he’d learnt how to truly use of these. If only they’d actually fought instead of hiding like cowards, Louis would still be here and they wouldn’t have been caught. If only-  
  
“Filthy blood!” The vampire is there, holding a large serrated knife the length of Dante’s forearm and he only has the time to block before it comes down. The force of the blow rings through his bones and he clenches his teeth, feeding them rattle. There’s an obvious spear wound in the vampire’s stomach but it doesn’t seem to weaken him, only anger him.  
  
“Run!” He yells at Riche as the next swing knocks the sword flat out of his palm. But they’re too slow and Riche cries out in surprise as the knife swings over her head. Dante trips in an awkward attempt to tackle the vampire and hits the ground.  
  
He crawls away from the vampire as fast as he can until his back hits a large oak tree. He looks up. The branches are far out of his reach, even standing, but if Riche could quickly climb onto his shoulders then maybe at least one of them would be safe. They have a bit of time, the vampire is coming towards them slowly, weaving on his feet. Maybe that spear wound is doing something to him after all.  
  
He motions at Riche and laces his fingers together for her to use as a glorified stepladder.  
  
They never get the chance.  
  
“I’ll kill both of you filthy bloods,” He snarls, “Destroy the impure. Destroy the filthy bloods. I’ll kill you!” He lunges forwards. A shadow drops out of the tree above and punches the vampire in the gut. He doubles over, the air knocked out of his lungs. The shadow grabs the knife and slams it into the bottom of the vampire’s jaw up to the hilt. The vampire gurgles blood and collapses, already turning into ash.  
  
The stranger turns to them. His eyes seem to reflect nothing behind his oval glasses. He’s livid with anger and the desire to inflict pain onto others. His expression is a more extreme version of the one Dante wears when he wants to protect Riche.  
  
“And what do we have here?” He asks coldly, tilting his head to one side. 


	3. An Endless Race

Astolfo doesn’t know how long they’ve been running but he doesn’t stop to think about it. The athelas coursing through his veins doesn’t let him. Olivier and Roland race ahead, having done this kind of marathon before.  
  
A part of him knows they’re abusing athelas, using much more than they should to the point of overdose (which they haven’t just yet reached) but they can’t stop. Won’t stop. No matter how dangerous it is, they’re all too stubborn to give up unless they drop.  
  
They need to find the dhams-need to find Dante and Riche. Though the most logical part of Astolfo’s mind tells him he owes them nothing and that they’re still half vampire, just like those that hurt him just like those that killed his family-But Riche reminds him too much of his little sister and her interactions with Dante are too much like one between siblings.  
  
His hatred for vampires still burns inside of him but he can’t bring himself to hate the cousins.  
  
He speeds up despite the nausea starting to churn in his stomach. The gap between him and Olivier-Roland leading with ease ahead- narrows and instead of staring at his long braid, swinging from side to side, he gets to see (out of the corner of his eye) Olivier’s focused and angry expression. He matches his pace to Olivier’s and pushes his body harder, faster.  
  
This new regime of running continues for a while and they pass into the territory of the Oriflammes kingdom. At least he thinks it is-he can’t properly think about maps and borders right now.  
  
The sun glints off of something and catches his eye. He reflexively slows down to a stop and picks up the object. It’s all too familiar. An astermite brooch. Some drops of blood are crusted on the side of it. Olivier and Roland take a few moments to realise Astolfo has stopped and Olivier notices something at his foot. Another brooch.  
  
“We can’t be far,” Roland deduces, looking around. The footprints in this area are barely a day old and the brooches aren’t made to come off so easily, “Then they have to be alive!” He grins and breaks into a run again. The others follow quickly enough, Olivier shoving the second brooch at Astolfo who stuffs them in one of his pockets.  
  
Not a lot of time passes-according to Astolfo’s athelas-induced mind- before Roland starts to slow down again.  
  
“What’s going on?” Olivier asks between two deep intakes of breath.  
  
“Something’s in the distance!” Roland yells over his shoulder, sounding just as out of breath. They also slow down enough for them to distinguish that the dark form is a cavalry group. As they get closer, they can see that a young vampire around Astolfo’s age rides ahead. He wears the insignia of the Oriflammes’ cavalry: a white horse pulling the sun.  
  
“Good sir!” Olivier hails him, waving his arms. The horses turn in their direction.  
  
“Good sir?” Astolfo mocks. His limbs shake almost uncontrollably due to the athelas and he swings out Louisette. That way, he can both lean on it and be prepared to fight if things go sour. Of course, he’s betting on things going sour, getting potential enemies and vampires out of the way will only help the world.  
  
“Shut up,” He scowls back, “We need allies. Being polite doesn’t hurt.” Astolfo makes a sound showing he disagrees.  
  
“I recognise the leader,” Roland interjects, shielding his eyes from the sun, “That’s Luca Oriflammes, his brother’s the king. What’s he doing out here?”  
  
“We’ll get our answers soon enough. I’ll do the talking.” Olivier orders.  
  
“Beg to differ but I’ll remind you I come from this kingdom. (Astolfo scowls, so does he.) And in case they’re enemies, I recommend you don’t speak; we don’t want word to get out that Charlemagne’s heir killed the Oriflammes’ prince. Unless you’re going to pass off as LeSage.” Roland raises a challenging eyebrow, he doesn’t like how Olivier hides himself behind that mask.  
  
“You-” The cavalry reaches them and Olivier cuts himself off.  
  
“Gentlemen,” Luca greets them and Astolfo can’t help but notice how the riders make sure they surround them, cutting off all exits, “How may I help you?”  
  
“Your Royal Highness,” Roland starts eagerly, “We three paladins are on a quest.”  
  
“A quest? In such dire times?” Luca raises an eyebrow underneath his helmet.  
  
“Our companions were captured,” Astolfo says before Roland can continue, “Both of average height and dhampirs. Male and female. Cousins. Dressed in black and red uniforms of sorts with a cape like ours.”  
  
“Dhampirs?” Luca echoes, “Out here? They tend to keep to themselves.”  
  
“They’re…from elsewhere. I’m guessing you haven’t seen them?” Olivier asks, sending a particularly nasty glare in Roland’s direction as he does so.  
  
“I haven’t,” Luca shakes his head, “But they were captured, you say?”  
  
“Yes, a group of men with blank eyes. They wore Faustina’s mark.” Luca’s mouth twists at the mention of the witch’s name; so he’s on their side, Astolfo assumes. Shame.  
  
“My men exterminated the group last night; we were hunting another group that joined the one you’re looking for. If your friends were there-I’m sorry.” Olivier’s stomach plummets as Louis’ sword burns at his side, twice as heavy all of a sudden. He promised to save the dhams, they can’t be dead. They just can’t.  
  
“Where are the bodies?” He manages to ask, voice thick.  
  
“We built a funeral pyre near the Silver Woods where their camp was. If I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. My men were rather thorough in their attack.” He warns, “Anything else I can help you with?”  
  
“Any news from the Blue Moon?” Roland asks, his face carefully blank.  
  
“No direct attacks but Vanitas has made her presence known even here. If I were you, I’d avoid the capital,” He grimaces then whistles and three horses trot forwards, “Here. Some of my riders fell yesterday, you’ll need them more than we do. But keep in mind that the silver witch has been sighted more than once in those woods,” He sighs, “And in the case we _do_ fall on your companions, do you have a message to transmit?” The Chasseurs exchange a glance, they haven’t had the time to think about that. In their minds, they’d catch up to Faustina’s men, fight them and find the dhams again. Astolfo is the one to speak up again.  
  
“Their names are Dante and Riche and if you do. Tell them that we’re coming to find them,” He roots in his pockets and fishes out one of the astermite brooches, “Here, this is one of theirs.”  
  
“Excellent. Do I have a name to give?” Luca pockets the brooch.  
  
“They’ll understand LeSage. Thank you.” If Olivier were five again, he’d stick his tongue out at Roland. But since he isn’t, he keeps on his calm mask.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Luca salutes them, “Come on men! To the South!” The ring of horses breaks away and soon enough, their group is just a quickly diminishing speck in the distance.  
  
The Chasseurs remain quiet for a moment before making sure the saddles are well adjusted and getting on. The horses are complacent and Astolfo barely has to move the reins that his already sets off at a steady pace. The idea of moving but not by foot is a strange and unusual after such a long period of running.  
  
“The Silver Woods,” Roland says, breathing in and out calmly and deeply in order to ward off the inevitable athelas shaking that Astolfo is currently suffering from, “That’s not good.”  
  
“What about them?” Olivier asks, unfamiliar with the area.  
  
“Most of it is superstition but-” He pauses, “We’ve been dealing with fairy tales for a while, haven’t we?”  
  
“Just spit it out.”  
  
“Most of those who enter the Silver Woods don’t come back out. Those that do don’t come out whole. Both physically and mentally.”  
  
“Is that the rumours? Or the truth?”  
  
“Both?” He shrugs, “But there’s definitely something in there that isn’t normal.”  
  
“Reassuring.” Roland shrugs at Astolfo’s sarcastic comment, it isn’t necessarily his fault that there’s a lack of information; it only adds to the mystery of the place after all.  
  
In the distance, a thin, almost invisible, plume of smoke rises waiting, beckoning, for them to come.


	4. Moreau and Misha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy late Valentine's day!

Hard rock digs through the soles of Noé’s shoes. He doesn’t remember exactly when the terrain underneath their feet turned into a mountainous area but it matters less to him than it does to Vanitas. Vanitas is-frustrated by this place to say the least.  
  
According to his knowledge of maps (something Noé is rather limited in) they should be on their way to the Blue Moon. Instead, this is the sixth time today they find themselves at the same spot. They can tell because the first time, they’d stopped for lunch and crumbs still litter the rocks they’d sat on. At the fourth pass, Noé took the initiative of leaving behind some coins in his pocket he somehow still has and they’re still there. He puts them back in his pocket as Vanitas kicks a small rock out of pure frustration.  
  
“I don’t understand!” He snaps, running his hands through his hair and messing it up even more than before. Noé is inclined to join him but someone has to remain calm here and so he instead takes a seat on the same rock from lunch, crosses his legs and decides to wait out Vanitas’ miniature tantrum, “This shouldn’t be possible! How are we not making progress?” Noé has already heard that before this afternoon but he nods as if it’s the first time he hears it.  
  
“Maybe it’s magic?” He suggests and immediately regrets it when Vanitas turns to glare at him.  
  
“Why this place then? What’s so special here? It’s just a bunch of rocks!” He aims another kick. Noé has half a mind to tell him to stop but in the end, seeing Vanitas’ crankiness is always entertaining, “And how would it even work? Who would even put such a spell? Vanitas of the Blue Moon? No, it would be much easier to put such a spell near the door of her land. Unless of course it would be detrimental to her armies…” Noé zones out, Vanitas’ mumbling becoming a continuous humming in the back of his mind.  
  
He wonders how the others are doing. If they’re together or if they’ve split ways. He hopes it’s the former. It hasn’t been too long since they left, he wonders where they are. If they’re lucky enough, they might be heading the same direction as them. Travelling as a group is better. Of course, that would mean addressing the strange attitude Vanitas presents whenever he mentions the Fellowship. This being Vanitas, Noé isn’t too surprised but he’d rather they all got along.  
  
He glances over his shoulder, as if that’ll summon the others. It doesn’t. He misses them, he was quick to adapt to their presence and now it burdens him. But at the start, it was just Vanitas and him. He can get used to this again.  
  
“Let’s head down,” He suggests, interrupting Vanitas midsentence. On one of their previous going arounds, they’d gone past a place to camp that provided a minimum of cover, “The sun’s about to set anyway.” Vanitas doesn’t look too happy about it but complies, having no actual choice in the end.  
  
They find it and settle down. Vanitas doesn’t eat much in normal circumstances and after this frustrating afternoon, his appetite has diminished so his meal is small. Noé, he, has already started rationing himself from his normal portion; they only have so much food and in this area, there seems to be nothing they could scavenge.  
  
Vanitas hugs his knees to his chest and sighs as he thinks of the night’s upcoming chill. Something falls across his shoulders and his eyes widen as Noé huddles next to him, sharing his cloak with him. With another sigh, Vanitas rests his head on Noé’s shoulder.  
  
“…Did Louis ever tell you of papers he possessed?” Vanitas asks after an eternity of silence. He feels Noé tense more than he sees him; there’s the answer, “Did he tell you of their contents?”  
  
“No,” Noé answers in that cautious tone of his, trying to test for a trap, “Do _you_ know what they talk about?”  
  
“Yes,” Vanitas says and he wants to end it there, wants to reveal nothing else but he has to tell Noé, “You _do_ know Moreau is following us?”  
  
“Yes.” He’s heard his nonsensical mutterings twice since they left but never too close to them for him to see Moreau. It’s very probable that they’ll meet him face to face very soon.  
  
“What Louis found,” Vanitas takes in a deep breath, “Is the papers Moreau wrote after the raid. And they confirmed that another test subject survived. And that he became Charlatan’s leader.” He sighs and keeps his gaze firmly fixed ahead.  
  
“I know.” Vanitas turns and _stares._ He’d been expecting anger, rejection, shock, some sort of violent emotion but not this. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that Noé might say that.  
  
“You _know?”_  
  
“He _did_ call you ‘Big brother’. It wasn’t hard to put the dots together when I thought about it,” Noé shrugs. There’s a small smile playing on his lips, indicating he finds Vanitas’ surprise amusing, “I wanted to talk to you about it but it was hard to find the right time in all of this mess. I also figured you probably wouldn’t want to talk about it,” He is genuinely surprised Vanitas is bringing it up without any prompting, “Why did they take him?”  
  
“I don’t know. Misha was-is younger than me and when they took him, one of his arms had been cut off so it wasn’t for his unending wisdom or strength. We came from similar backgrounds as well. I did tell him to do whatever it takes for him to survive,” He quiets and Noé thinks the conservation is over when he speaks up again, “They tried to take me too.”  
  
He doesn’t elaborate but the images of that fateful night spin through his mind. The night that had him end up with the Book in his possession and the strange mark that belongs to Faustina on his arm. But what did that mark mean? And why did both Naenia and Faustina have it?  
  
Noé nudges him with his shoulder, breaking him out of his whirlwind of thoughts.  
  
“Despite your difficult personality with which I often find myself struggling,” One of Vanitas’ eyebrows twitch and Noé’s teasing grin softens, “I’m glad they failed.”  


***

The moon is high in the sky, a few stray rays breaking through the thick cover of clouds, and the two of them are still huddled close, Noé’s cloak barely covering both of them (though in his sleep, Noé seems to be stealing it back).Vanitas’ head rests on Noé’s shoulder once again, his eyes closed. Noé snores lightly, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly.  
  
Far above their head, a pale hand, the fingers spindly and unnaturally elongated, reaches out to find a handhold. It finds one and freezes as it dislodges some tiny rocks. Neither of the figures below react, the sound too minute (even for Noé’s hearing) to perceive them.  
  
The second hand finds its own hold and Moreau starts to climb down. Beady eyes gaze hungrily down at his prey.  
  
He lowers himself down, most of his body angled towards Noé. He reaches out, his fingers just inches from Vanitas’ hair.  
  
Noé’s eyes snap open. He tears his cloak away from Vanitas’ very loose grasp and wraps it around Moreau’s head, his own eyes glowing red. Moreau makes a surprised sound as Noé pulls, ripping him away from the rock wall.  
  
Moreau lands with a dull thump and Vanitas surges to his feet, his daggers out and any sign of fatigue cleared from his face. The cloak’s colour fades, merging with the background as it’s meant to do and erasing Moreau from sight. Noé and Vanitas surround the area where they think he is. If Moreau has retained any of his former intelligence (and unfortunately for them, he probably has), he’ll figure out how to use this camouflage to his advantage and they’ll lose the element of surprise they had.  
  
They look at each other and Vanitas nods. Noé readies himself and aims a kick at where he thinks Moreau is; in the scuffle with Faustina’s men, he’d lost his sword and so all he has as weapons are his fists and feet.  
  
His foot makes contact with cloth and the cloak shimmers back into view as he whips it away.  
  
But Moreau isn’t underneath it.  
  
“What-”  
  
“Noé!” Vanitas cries just as long, spindly fingers wrap around his neck from behind, and start to squeeze, cutting off his airflow. They’d been too focused on the Moreau from Vanitas’ past to remember that this is the Moreau that managed to create a three-headed hybrid of a wolf and a human. It shouldn’t be surprising that Moreau is much faster than the average human, almost as quick as a vampire. And yet-  
  
Noé falls, Moreau’s sharp nails digging into his skin harder at the impact but he doesn’t stop. Noé goes to elbow him in the gut when Vanitas leans in over him and presses one of his glowing daggers to Moreau’s throat.  
  
“No. 69!” Flecks of spittle cover the back of Noé’s neck, his face twisting at the uncomfortable sensation, “Your eyes! They’ve changed colour.” His tone becomes almost reverent.  
  
“Careful, _Doctor,”_ Vanitas warns, tone too sweet for it to be real, “Continue hurting him and you’ll find yourself headless quickly enough.” With a whimper, Moreau let go of him and he gets back up on his feet, ducking under Vanitas’ arm to get to his bag. Noé grabs the rope Machina gave him and, pulling Moreau’s arms behind him, tries his wrists together.  
  
“Vampire, vampire, vampire, vampire!” Moreau gabbles excitedly upon noticing his glowing, red eyes, barely pausing for breath, “Dissect, dissect, must see what’s inside!” Noé feels slightly ill. Now that he isn’t faking sleep or busy being strangled, Noé can see what Moreau truly looks like. It’s far from a pretty sight.  
  
Moreau is a hunched and deformed creature, with limbs that are too long for his body yet, as they’ve previously witnessed, allow him to move stealthily. His skin is taut and tight across his ribs and face though it appears leathery and almost bloated around his temples and one of his hands, the results of skin merging with goggles and a glove. He wears what must have once been a white coat but is now no more than an assortment of dirtied rags. His neck has a striped pattern, something Vanitas recognises as coming from the striped scarf he always wore. The Book seems to have tried to make a curse bearer out of him despite his human nature. Vanitas wonders what he’ll look like when it’s his turn.  
  
“What do we do now?” Noé turns to Vanitas just as Moreau notices the rope and starts to shriek in an animalistic, ululating way.  
  
“We continue.” Vanitas says, as if he’s stating the obvious, and sheathes his daggers.  


***

Moreau howls, tilting his head so far back his scrawny neck is revealed in its full length. The rope isn’t even that tight around his neck, he’s only making it worse by moving around so much.  
  
Noé reflexively glances around but there’s no wildlife amongst these rocks for them to startle. They’ve made some progress since they’ve captured Moreau and by progress, Noé means they’ve started looping around something new.  
Moreau digs his heels into the ground, refusing to move forwards. Noé tugs at the rope softly, trying to nudge him along without being too forceful. Vanitas reaches over and yanks it.  
  
 _“Vanitas!”_ He reproaches.  
  
“What? Have you forgotten he tried to kill you?”  
  
“No! Nor have I forgotten what he’s done to you or what you told me. But I’m not going to hurt him unnecessarily.”  
  
“You’re too chivalrous Noé. And someday it’s going to come and bite you.”  
  
“Agree to disagree,” He concedes, making Vanitas scowl. Noé leans in to whisper, “But we have to do something with him. At this rate, he’ll get us both caught before we even reach the border.”  
  
“I know, I’ve been thinking. Moreau-well, the Moreau I used to know-likes to talk a lot. Appeal to him and eventually, he’ll tell you more than enough,” Realisation flashes upon his countenance, “Wait a minute, we might be able to use that to our advantage. The Book’s made him more insane than he already was but-do you think he remembers you’re a vampire?”  
  
“Probably? He remembered both your number and your old eye colour-whatever that’s about.” Vanitas makes a non-committal noise meaning he won’t talk about the subject.  
  
“Then I might have a plan.” He announces, his usual grin pulling at his lips. Noé grins back.  


***

“Doctor,” Vanitas comes up to Moreau, his daggers sheathed and a honey-sweet smile plastered to his lips. It’s so unnatural it makes Noé shudder, “We have a bargain to offer you.”  
  
“Bargain?” He hisses, “We don’t like those, no we don’t. Much better to not need others, yes, that’s right. But since it’s No. 69, we can listen,” His head snaps to the side and his voice becomes a low snarl, “No, he hurt us with the shinies and the burning rope. Can’t trust him, can’t trust him, can’t trust him.”  
  
“Come now Doctor,” Vanitas places his hand over Moreau’s in a comforting gesture, “It was a mistake. But listen, my friend the vampire is willing to let you dissect him and perform experiments on him. And I’ll give you one of my eyes.” Moreau’s head jerks back to him, eyes wide in adoration and scientific curiosity, “In exchange, you guide us into the Land of the Blue Moon.” _And then, I’ll dispose of you,_ he thinks.  
  
“I agree, I agree!” Moreau cries, “So kind, so kind No. 69!” _So he can talk in first person,_ he notes, _he must really be excited._  
  
“I’m glad,” He says, “Here.” He undoes the rope around Moreau’s neck and steps back. Moreau stares then breaks into a wide, toothy grin. He looks at Noé then skitters towards him. Noé starts, expecting a fight, but remains still under Vanitas’ sign. Noé’s surprised as Moreau’s spindly arms wrap around one of his legs in a strange embrace.  
  
“Oh vampire, how generous! I just can’t wait to be one of you!”  
  
“…It’s an honour.” Noé lies thickly and peels his legs out of his grasp. Moreau skitters away before stopping a few feet ahead and waving them to him.  
  
“It’s this way! Come, come!”  
  
“That was easier than I thought.” Noé comments, nudging Vanitas with his shoulder as he walks past.  
  
“Stay on your guard.” Is all Vanitas says. 


	5. The Silver Witch

The pyre still smokes when the Chasseurs arrive but most of the flames have gone out. Heads on pikes stare at them as they approach, a show and warning to all those around that the Oriflammes’ power is far more destructive than anyone would think.  
  
They dismount and find themselves wordless for a moment. Then Olivier takes one step forwards then another and another until his movement unsettles ash that swirls around him. He tests the side of pyre with one of his feet. No sparks fly out. He starts to climb.  
  
“Careful!” Roland calls before imitating him. Astolfo follows.  
  
Olivier is glad for his thick gauntlets as he scavenges through the top of the pyre, feeling the heat trapped from the inside of it escape. He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for. Clothes? No, they would have burnt long ago. Bones? Do dhampirs turn to ash or not?  
  
Astolfo jumps off the pyre and brushes the ashes off his clothes. There’s a scowl marring his features and Olivier only has the time to blink before he kicks a stray helmet with a wordless scream of anger. It cuts off abruptly.  
  
Olivier whips around, already drawing out Hauteclaire. But Astolfo isn’t in danger like he first assumed. Instead, he’s on his hands and knees, parting the grass. A dismembered arm that escaped the pyre lies there. Astolfo pries something out of its clenched fist.  
  
“A shoe?” Olivier sheathes Hauteclaire and crouches next to him.  
  
“Not just any shoe,” Hope shines in Astolfo’s eyes and both Olivier and Roland are reminded that he’s still just a child, one whose innocence was stolen young but a child nonetheless, “It’s _Riche’s_ shoe.” Upon closer inspection, Olivier realises he’s right. The few pieces of footwear still intact on the pyre are mainly boots and are much larger than the shoe Astolfo holds.  
  
“It seems plausible.” Roland says.  
  
“More than plausible. I’m _certain.”_ Olivier can’t help the non-committal noise escaping out of his mouth but he doesn’t add anything. Instead, he gets even closer to the ground and examines it with careful precision. There’s tracks. Faint ones that he can barely see but still tracks.  
  
“Roland, you’re better at this than me.” He takes a step back and watches as Roland picks out a long track of flattened grass he thinks something (or someone) might have been dragged across. It’s reminiscent of the times when Roland wasn’t a paladin, just Olivier’s subordinate. Even then, Roland hadn’t been very respectful of hierarchy which shows sometimes things don’t change at all.  
  
“Are you alright?” He asks Astolfo in the most discreet way he can. As he expects, Astolfo stiffens. They’ve never really gotten along, Roland being the main link between the two of them, so he has every reason to be suspicious. Olivier’s only asking because Roland would have both of their heads if Astolfo drops due to some problem related to fatigue and athelas.  
  
“I’m fine.” He answers, his words stiff as wood. They turn away from each other.  
  
Roland waves them other, now at the edge of the forest. Despite the cloudless sky, the sun doesn’t seem to shine through the trees’ foliage, leaving it shrouded in shade.  
  
“They seem to have gone inside,” Roland says. Luca and his previous warnings of what lies in the Silver Woods hang above their heads. The silver witch Luca spoke of frequents this forest and might just be linked to the ghost stories Roland told them of. Then Dante and Riche might still be in her clutches, “Let’s go inside.” He runs in, not even bothering to check if they’re following. Astolfo charges in after him.  
  
“What are you doing you idiots?” Olivier yells, his last string of patience snapping. What about strategizing? He lets out a single sigh and goes in after them. The trees seem to quiver and close behind him.  


***

“I can definitely see why people would think this is haunted.” Olivier says, keeping his voice low like raising it would disturb something. Or someone. He’d rather not think about that.  
  
They’ve slowed down now, the terrain too tricky for running to be safe. In fact, it seems unnaturally tricky. Roots come out underneath their feet in attempts to trip them. Branches reach out with crooked finger to tangle themselves in their hair and hook around their clothes. More than once do they have to pause because one of their boots sunk and got stuck in squelching mud despite it not having rained recently. All of this seems to have Olivier as the main target. It’s starting to get more than tedious.  
  
“Do you remember anything about a sentient forest?” Olivier asks at Roland’s intention. It’s certainly the impression _he’s_ getting.  
  
“Only that it has the habit of eating the people who enter it.” Roland says over his shoulder. Olivier makes a sound as if he’s just been punched in the stomach and overtakes Astolfo in order to grab Roland by the shoulder and pull him towards him.  
  
“And you couldn’t have told us that beforehand.” He seethes with barely contained rage. Roland doesn’t react, used to his temper; there’s that empty look in his eyes that says he’s determined to reach his goal, no matter the consequences or rules he breaks.  
  
“It slipped my mind.” He says with a bright smile, the emptiness disappearing. _Liar,_ Olivier accuses silently.  
  
“If you think I wouldn’t come in because of that, you really don’t know me well.” He whispers in Roland’s ear.  
  
“I wasn’t thinking of you.” He says. Olivier turns to look at Astolfo and finds him distracted, one hand on a tree trunk. The leaves quiver but nothing comes towards his way with hostile intentions. Olivier represses a sigh. Despite all of these years, Astolfo still retains his kind and gentle nature. Roland would say that’s good, that he might be healing. Olivier thinks it’s a danger, there’s a reason Astolfo is a Dwarf Chasseur living amongst unfeeling rock rather than an Elf one like Roland.  
  
Astolfo turns towards them and all softness he’d been displaying turns back into sharp edges.  
  
“They don’t like our weapons.” He says and Olivier realises Durandal, Hauteclaire and Louisette could all be taken as variants of axes, Hauteclaire’s spikes poking out of its custom-made sheath. Astolfo pushes a button and his spearhead retracts, turning Louisette into a simple staff. Roland and Olivier dig through what’s left in their packs, having tossed out what they thought of as too heavy or unnecessary, scavenging for something. Fortunately enough for them, there are lengths of cloth at the bottom that they use to wrap their respective weapons. The trees leave them alone after this.  
  
Well, mostly alone. The occasional branch still pulls on Olivier’s braid much to his annoyance.  
  
They haven’t made much progress when a howl erupts from deeper inside the forest. They freeze in their tracks. Before Olivier can ask if there are normally wolves, Roland shakes his head.  
  
“A fight, then.” Astolfo says, Louisette’s spearhead sliding out into the open. Olivier puts a hand on Hauteclaire’s hilt and finds it thrumming with invisible power. That’s never happened before but he has an inkling of what it might be.  
  
“We’ve got Faustina on our hands.” He says. His sword was made by a witch and contains fragments of Charlemagne’s, it makes sense it might have picked up its own kind of magic.  
  
They huddle into a line, shoulder to shoulder, their backs to a boulder. Branches break underfoot to Olivier’s left but nothing comes out. Silence falls but it’s an unnatural one, where the noises of the forest and the chittering of the birds are non-existent.  
  
“Above us,” He whispers, “On three. One…two…three!” They leap forwards and spin around. Astolfo raises Louisette like a javelin. Roland goes to use Durandal as a whip.  
  
A cacophony rings in their ears, loud and shrill, piercing straight into their skull. Olivier raises a hand to his ear, the other clutching Hauteclaire, and feels blood trickle onto his gauntlet. He tries to take a step forwards but finds himself frozen in place; Astolfo and Roland are also similarly stuck.  
  
The noise ceases in an instant and Olivier stumbles forwards, almost falling to his knees. He braces his bloodied hand against the floor and staggers back up. He prepares to charge and-  
  
“Chloé?”  


***

The witch standing in front of them resembles Chloé and yet, doesn’t. Physically, she’s the same but there’s a glow and a radiance to her presence that there wasn’t before, that makes everyone’s eye turn to her. Instead of the shabby grey clothes she normally wears and wore when she fell in the abyss in the Gévaudan mines, she’s clothed in a luminescent, silvery dress.  
  
Standing at her side is a man with dark hair hiding his eyes. His clothes are suited for travel and he holds a staff too small for him and more appropriate for Chloé. When he shifts, they see he has a vampire’s red eyes despite him not using any of his speed or strength.  
  
“But, you died!” Olivier winces at how loud his voice is. That blast of magic must have deafened him slightly. He hopes it’s only temporary.  
  
“Not exactly,” Chloé lowers her outstretched hand and the quiet vampire passes her her staff. They hop down from the boulder, “It’s good to see you three again.” Roland lowers Durandal before breaking into a sprint and embracing her. She hugs back. The quiet vampire doesn’t say anything but his expression seems to darken. Olivier keeps an eye on him.  
  
“You’re bleeding.” The vampire says. Olivier is about to make a snarky remark when he realises the vampire isn’t looking or talking to him. He looks over his shoulder. Astolfo is hunched over Louisette, chest rising and falling almost spasmodically as the brunt of the athelas withdrawals finally hit. When he looks up, Olivier can clearly see the blood trailing not only from his ears but also from his nose and eyes. He curses. Astolfo’s overdosing.  
  
The vampire is by his side before Olivier even starts to move.  
  
“Don’t touch me!” Astolfo snarls, pushing him away. He staggers but steadies himself with Louisette, “I’m fine!” He snaps at the intention of the Chasseurs.  
  
“Don’t be stupid.” Roland reproaches but there’s no real bite to his words. There is, however, that disappointed glaze in his eyes. He thinks of Astolfo as a little brother. A rebellious one that’s more often a pain than not but a little brother nonetheless. He just wishes Astolfo had told them that he was reaching his limits.  
  
Chloé waves her hand and a bracelet of small, silvery bells Olivier suspects is partly responsible for the earlier cacophony rings. Visible music notes float over to Astolfo and fade. They watch as his breathing eases and the flow of blood cuts off.  
  
“That’s better,” She smiles and takes a seat on a nearby rock, her legs dangling in the air. They all imitate her, the vampire returning to her side, and Roland swings an arm around Astolfo’s shoulders who, though he protests initially, lets himself lean onto him, “I’m glad you all got here safely.”  
  
“About that-” Olivier starts, his hand going to the hilt of Louis’ sword.  
  
“I know,” Chloé interrupts with a sour twist of her mouth, “Dante and Riche told me what happened.”  
  
“Are they okay?” Astolfo’s head snaps up but Roland pushes him back down.  
  
“Some stray injuries here and there but other than that, they’re fine,” She makes a dismissive hand gesture. The vampire lets out a small cough, “Mostly fine.”  
  
“As fine as they can be with Johann.” The vampire mutters under his breath but still loud enough for them to hear.  
  
“Who?” Roland asks, concerned.  
  
“A dhampir community has formed in these woods where they can live, unharmed. Johann just happens to be the leader of it. He can be difficult I admit but they’ll be safer there than with us.”  
  
“Chloé, how exactly are you alive? And who is this?” Roland points at the quiet vampire.  
  
“Jean-Jacques!” Chloé beams. The Chasseurs take a moment to remember who he is and are then stunned into silence. Astolfo is the first one to break it:  
  
“Are you out of your mind?”  
  
“Agreed, have you gone senile?” Roland says, looking like he got hit by a horse-driven cart. Olivier only sighs and sits down, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Chloé’s good mood dissipates at their less-than-flattering comments, “Jean-Jacques and I both survived the fall though I was grievously injured. Naenia-she, fled, having escaped both my grip and my spells. We fought and I used all of my power, including my life-force, to restore his true name. I should have died. But I didn’t. Perhaps Paracelsus himself took pity on me,” She shakes her head, “No, that’s wrong. Chloé the Grey died. But Chloé the Silver got to live.”  
  
“Good grief,” Olivier mutters, “You’re telling me death earned you a promotion as a witch?”  
  
“If only it were that easy in the Chasseur hierarchy.” Roland says as Chloé smirks.  
  
“Faustina did always tell me you’d have to be an idiot to rely just on your staff. I just went the extra step.”  
  
“…I, um, I have something to say,” Jean-Jacques starts in a soft voice, cowering slightly as they all turn to look at him. Chloé nods encouragingly and he continues, “First of all, I apologise for what happened in the mines. I wanted to control myself but-” He clenches his fists and looks at the ground, ashamed.  
  
“Don’t make such a fuss about it,” Astolfo says scornfully, “You didn’t even hurt us.” The tension in Jean-Jacques’ posture eases and he nods. Olivier raises an eyebrow, Astolfo must really be trying if he’s speaking this nicely to a vampire.  
  
“And secondly, I know who Naenia is.”  


***

_“Who?_ Not what?” Roland points out. When Olivier turns to look at him, he notices the dark circles under his eyes. Just like Olivier, he must be feeling the same thirst and hunger as the athelas drains from his body. Not the best condition they’ve ever been.  
  
“The first time I saw her, she was more confused than malicious. Chloé was gone, I was lonely. So I talked to her. I saw her several times after and started piecing things together. She could change between a corporeal form and spirit-like one but using the latter had her losing her memories. However, the more she got used to it, the more she remembered. And the crueller she became. And then, the day we were attacked by the Blue Moon’s vampires, she told me she could give me the strength I needed to protect the Gévaudan people in exchange for my true name. So I did but it was a trick. I had the strength but not the self-control and ended up decimating my own people too. Her bargains are unfair and made to make you lose.”  
  
“It pains me to say that my old master is a bigger traitor than previously believed but it hardly surprises me when I think about it. However, it does provide us with an advantage and some explanations as to how she always knew where we were.” Chloé adds.  
  
“And as to how you restored my name,” Jean-Jacques smiles, “However incomplete it is.”  
  
 _“Incomplete?”_ Olivier asks. Chloé can’t help but snicker at the outraged look on his face. He’s harmless to her. Power swirls through her veins, more than she’s ever felt before. She can feel every individual spark and thread available to her, like an instrument’s strings and the music it makes.  
  
“Faustina seems to be able to do it without using her life force because she’s the silver witch. I did it when I was weaker than her. Hence the ‘incomplete’ part.”  
  
“I have more human aspects than I do vampire like this.” Jean-Jacques says.  
  
“But can you heal curse bearers now?” Roland asks. They all perk up.  
  
“No. Otherwise I’d have cured Jean-Jacques completely.” She grumbles. They all sink back down.  
  
“What do we do now? Dante and Riche are with this Johann and Vanitas and Noé are-somewhere.” Olivier drums his fingers on his knee.  
  
“We do what we always do,” Roland grins, “We save the world.”  
  
“Exactly,” Chloé smiles with pride, “And we’ll start with the Oriflammes.” 


	6. Finding Bats

“Why is Chloé making me deal with you two?” Johann pouts, a bat flapping erratically around his head.  
  
“Why is Chloé make us deal with you?” Riche retorts. Now that she’s been healed a bit through Chloé’s magic, she’s found the courage to speak up. Dante’s mind is too hazy to focus on the conversation at hand. He doesn’t know what shocks him more: the fact that Chloé’s alive or the fact that they’ve been put aside with such ease.  


***

_“What do we do now? We may have you back now but we don’t know where the others are.” Dante says, glum, after having recovered from the initial shock of seeing Chloé well and alive. Riche still looks dumbstruck and frozen. The somewhat homicidal stranger leans against the trunk of a tree, shooting suspicious glances at both parties. He may be their ally, having brought them to Chloé and not Faustina, but that peace seems fragile. The tree seems to lean in around him. Like a mother embracing her child, Dante realises._  
  
 _“‘We?’ I’m sorry Dante but you can’t come where Jean-Jacques and I are going.” He jerks back at Chloé’s words, as if he’d been slapped. His cheeks burn with shame, is this her way of blaming them for Louis’ death? By reminding him how useless and unwanted he is?_  
  
 _“Why not?” He manages to ask._  
  
 _“Too dangerous. It’s better if you stay here with Johann.”_  
  
“What?” _Johann almost shrieks and recomposes himself, “I mean, pardon me, I must have heard you wrong.” His personality seems to switch entirely, becoming tooth-rotting sweet and overly polite, but his words hold an unspoken threat. Yeah, Dante doesn’t trust this guy at all._  
  
 _“It’s for the best,” Chloé throws Johann a stern look, making him back away, an unsatisfied look on his face, “Faustina believes one of you might have the Book and she won’t stop until she has you both in her grasp. I know my master, she’ll think here is the last place you’d go, being so close to her tower.” Of course, Faustina knows the Book-holder has a partner with them constantly so who better (in her opinion) than two dhams who are harder to corrupt? Still, he can’t help feeling hurt. And when he’s hurt, he lashes out._  
  
 _“Is that how_ you’re _putting it?” He snaps. He doesn’t miss the surprised but appraising look in Johann’s eyes. Jean-Jacques makes a low growling sound and Dante startles. Chloé aims a light slap at Jean-Jacque’s arm and he stops._  
  
 _“I know you disagree but your part to play in the Fellowship hasn’t yet arrived. I can feel it in my heart that you have something to do here first.”_  


***

Past Dante thinks it was all a bunch of nonsense she got away with saying because she’s a witch and no-one knows the extent of her new powers. Current Dante agrees with past Dante.  
  
Riche lets out a large sigh aimed at Johann, snapping him out of his miserable thoughts. She’s gotten much livelier since they left Chloé and Jean-Jacques, as if staying near them has sapped all of her energy. Dante certainly feels that way.  
  
 _“This_ way,” Johann grabs his sleeve and pulls him to the left before he walks into a tree, “Goodness gracious, you’re both country bumpkins.”  
  
“Or maybe it’s because our friend who we all thought was dead is back.” Riche quips. She throws Dante a look that says ‘can you believe this guy?’ and sighs when he doesn’t acknowledge her. Johann says something back but she ignores him, focused on the ground. As threatening as he was earlier, Johann was kind enough to warn them that the Silver Woods are mostly sentient and so she’s careful to avoid breaking any twigs or stepping on any roots; her shoeless foot forces her to limp slightly.  
  
As she isn’t answering him, Johann pouts and moves ahead of them. She doesn’t know how she feels about him if she’s being honest. One minute he’s practically putting a knife to their throats and threatening to kill them and the next, he’s acting like what she thinks an overprotective mother is. She doesn’t know what an overprotective mother is like. She doesn’t even know what a caring mother is like.  
  
But she saw the worried look in Chloé’s eyes when they spoke to her. And that’s why she got pulled aside before their departure with Johann under the pretext of repairing her glasses.  
  
 _“Maintain a friendship with Johann,” Chloé whispers in her ear as she mends the crack in her glasses, “He’s an unstable ally and only believes in his community. Earn his trust and convince him to actually join us in this war.” Riche nods._  
  
But how to earn someone’s trust when they’re cynical and paranoid? Riche doesn’t know the answer to that question. But she knows she needs to tell Dante as soon as possible so he can help her.  
  
Far behind them, a wolf howls and they all pause.  
  
“It seems your friends have entered the Silver Woods.” Johann says.  
  
“You can communicate with animals?” She asks. That would explain the bat at his side.  
  
“Of course not, don’t be silly. But Jean-Jacques was meant to warn me.” Johann lets out a small, derisive sniff at her expense. _Chloé’s plan is never going to work, she thinks._  
  
“Where are you taking us?” Dante speaks up, a spark of life returning to his previously dull eyes, “We only seem to be going in deeper.”  
  
“Well, before I accept you living with my people, there’s one last condition.”  
  
 _“What?”_ Riche almost shrieks, “But we’re dhams! Chloé told you so!”  
  
“Nothing against you,” Johann pushes them forwards and shakes his head. His voice becomes light and bright as he speaks, “But I’ve learnt to not trust witches. As well as everyone else in general.”  
  
“That’s…a grim point of view on the world,” Dante comments, “…What is this place?” They’re at the entrance of a cave in the depths of the Silver Woods that, as far as she remembers from maps, extend far after the hill they’re at the base of. It’s so dark they can make nothing out. They can hear, however, the fluttering of leathery wings. Johann’s bat friend flies in and doesn’t come back out.  
  
“How is that going to help us win your trust? Are we meant to go in there (Dante blanches not-so-subtly) and go through to the other side? Is this a test of bravery?” Riche asks.  
  
“Oh no, this is the only entrance,” Johann says cheerily. Two other dhampirs drop from the trees behind Johann. Dante feels like they’ve just walked into a very big trap, “But you see, all of us dhams got our bats from this cave. If you want to prove yourself, find your bats. I’ll come check up on you tomorrow. Have fun!”  
  
“Wait-!” They’re ungraciously shoved into the cave and the dhampirs roll a large boulder in front of the entrance. Just before it fully traps them in, Johann blows them a kiss, “I hate that guy.” Riche says.  
  
“…Agreed,” Dante says after a long moment, clutching her arm. Something brushes against his face and he lets out a small scream of fear, “How are we meant to find any bats least of all _ours_ when we can’t see them?” As dhampirs, they’ve both inherited an advanced hearing but not seeing in the dark like Noé and-Louis.  
  
No, she can’t think about that. Not here, not now. She links her arm with Dante’s and starts pulling him along. They should be fine as long as there are no holes in the ground.  
  
“There has to be another exit,” She says, “We can’t stay in here forever.”  
  
“And,” Dante makes a whimpering sound, “I don’t think those bats would make a home here if there’s only one exit.” He says, not knowing a thing about bats.  
  
“You’re right,” Then her hopes crash, “Unless it’s bat-sized.” But they both know they have to try.  
  
“It’s in moments like these I wish I had the quack’s daggers.” Dante says, trying to lighten the mood and his nerves.  
  
“They only glow in times of danger.”  
  
“This _is_ dangerous,” He retorts as they start, with cautious movements, to move on forwards, “Into the belly of the beast I guess.”  


***

Dante is glad for Riche’s presence in this cave. Alone, he doesn’t think he would have survived mentally. He would have frozen, his mind going in loops, until he either went insane or Johann pushed the boulder away.  
  
They don’t even know if Johann will come back and find them in here. Riche having told him of Chloé’s intentions, he feels better about their ‘exile’ but that only makes his suspicion of Johann double see triple. What if he’s already figured out what Chloé wants and is looking for a way to indirectly kill them? It’s not a pleasant thought.  
  
He hears the flapping of wings and they both duck to avoid a pair of bats. None of the bats they can hear shuffling above move from their perch except from what they suppose is Johann’s that stays close and the same two that do circles around them before heading in a random direction and inevitably coming back. Maybe that’s what Johann means by ‘their bats’.  
  
Footsteps resonate from above, above in the sun. That’s new. Does that mean they’re closer to the surface? The three bats whirl past them and disappear somewhere to their right. They can still hear them but can’t tell where they are.  
  
Dante presses his hand against the cave wall, trying to feel for an opening. As he goes along, a blind man, Riche untwists her arm from his and climbs onto his shoulders to search above. She finds an opening, too small for them but good enough for bats, and has to brace herself before she smashes her face against the wall. _There has to be some way for us,_ she thinks. She’s reaching her limit in this dark cramped space. She thinks Dante’s already reached his and is just repressing his urge to scream. (She’s correct.)  
  
Her fingers brush against a wooden surface on the cave roof. She gasps and gropes around until she finds a groove. She digs her fingernails into it and pulls. The trapdoor opens and fabric hits her in the face. She lets out a yelp and loses her balance. Dante feels the pressure of her feet on his shoulders disappears as Riche hits the ground with a ‘thump’.  
  
“Are you alright?” His question, though quiet, seems to echo in this darkness. He doesn’t move, afraid of tripping on her.  
  
“…I’m fine. Just gained a few more bruises,” She groans, “I found our exit.” She gets up and, feeling around, finds the fabric that startled her. It’s a makeshift ladder. After informing Dante, they start to climb, Dante going first.  
  
Every new rung he reaches, he cringes and prepares himself to hear fabric tear before he starts to fall. But the rope holds and Dante reaches the top of ladder. Gripping the rung with one hand, he pushes the trapdoor above him up and to the side. Dirt and leaves dust the top of his head and the back of his neck. He crawls out at the top of the hill they’d previously stood at the base of and blinks rapidly to adjust to the late afternoon sunlight.  
  
Late afternoon? It was barely midday when they got shut in. And now that he thinks about it, what are bats even doing out during the day? Are they magic?  
  
Riche comes out after him and lies on her back, gazing into the clouds. They’re both covered in grime and scrapes cover their palms from sharp rocks but they’re alive and out.  
  
“So you both made it out, I’m impressed.” Comes Johann’s voice from behind them.  
  
“Find your bats, they said.” Dante says without acknowledging Johann.  
  
“It’ll be fun they said.” Riche says.  
  
“It’ll be fun,” Dante echoes and looks at Johann, “What do you want?”  
  
“I came to wait you out. You got out rather fast.”  
  
“Your footsteps are loud,” Riche says before sitting up, “How did _that_ prove to you we weren’t going to hurt you?”  
  
“The Silver Wood bats won’t bond with those untrustworthy. And you’ve both managed to find one each.” He gestures to the sky where his bat is currently consorting with what Dante supposes is now theirs.  
  
“Great.” Dante says, not even mustering up the energy to sound sarcastic.  
  
“Don’t look so glum,” Johann’s lively tone returns, “I brought you some food!” He holds up a basket and their eyes follow it like a pack of starving wolves.  
  
“This is the only good thing about this arrangement.” Riche says as she bites into a piece of bread. Dry bread has never tasted so delicious to her. Judging from Dante’s expression, he feels the same.  
  
A bat swoops down, lands on her head for a moment and takes off again to steal a fig and settle in a tree. Johann’s plucks a fig from the dham’s own hand and Dante’s takes its own discreetly.  
  
The sun sets on their unusual picnic. 


	7. Le Fort, LePetit and the Hellfire Witch

“This is not,” Astolfo says, “The best idea we’ve ever had.”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean,” Roland says with usual cheer, “This seems like a sound plan.” Astolfo can’t help the strangled sound that comes out of his mouth.  
  
“Why were you ever chosen as paladin?” He mumbles.  
  
“Olivier would tell you it’s so I’d get out of his hair but Olivier’s not here!” He laughs, then turns serious. Astolfo resists the urge to shudder, “But I do suppose I fit some criteria just like you. It’s something we have to uphold lest we get demoted.” Astolfo makes a noncommittal grunt and slows his horse down ever so slightly to avoid making more conversation.  
  
He sighs as they pass the gates to the Oriflammes’ capital (he can’t say he invested energy in remembering its name) and enter the city. People in the unpaved streets stop and stare as they make the climb up to the castle. They mustn’t get many Chasseurs here; Astolfo’s glad for the fact that Olivier shoved their hoods over their heads before they left.  
  
“Look ahead and quit slouching.” Roland orders, quiet enough to only be heard by Astolfo. The smile remains plastered to his face but his tone is stern. Astolfo tugs his hood further down and straightens in his saddle.  
  
They dismount upon reaching the castle steps and Astolfo looks out to the Silver Woods in the distance. He wonders what Olivier is doing, if he’s remaining idly with Chloé or if he’s already followed them here. Someone takes their horses’ reins and guides them to the nearest stable as Roland and he go up the steps. A guard steps in front of the door and holds his hand out.  
  
“What’s your business stranger?” A scraggly beard huts out from underneath his helmet. Astolfo lifts his head an inch and sees that purple shadows line the underside of his eyes. Clearly, there’s something wrong thing here.  
  
“We’re just looking for some hospitality before we head back home. A warm meal, a bed… That’s all we’re here for.” Roland says. The man gulps at the mention of ‘hospitality’. It’s not a law but it’s a strong suggestion that Chasseurs on a mission have at least one place to go to in every major city. In a place like Paris, it’s Amelia’s hotel, though they do have to pay a fee. In a capital like Carbunculus (now he remembers), it’s the castle itself. Of course, they could be refused and then they’d have to resort to plan B which is even worse than plan A which, considering everything, says something.  
  
“Who am I introducing to His Majesty?” The guard asks in a gruff tone and Astolfo watches as the tension building up in Roland’s shoulders evaporates.  
  
“I am LeFort,” Roland says, “And my companion here is LePetit.” Astolfo tries not to grind his teeth together too hard. He takes all references made to his height to heart, it makes him feel like a child playing dress-up in too large clothes. They _need_ this plan to work and even though there’s an itch under his skin and his hands are shaking with barely visible tremors, he keeps his anger bridled and his temper in check, an oil pool to be lit up later. Roland watches him out of the corner of his eyes, wary. Astolfo’s known for his visceral reaction to that kind of nickname, which was why he, Roland, had suggested such a pseudonym. They want to avoid being recognised and this is the least likely nickname to use.  
  
“I see. Your weapons please, sirs.” Well, at least he’s not being mistaken for a girl. They unsling Durandal and Louisette and pass them to another guard. The first guard-Hama they later learn his name is- pushes the doors open with a long creak, “Welcome, sirs, to Castle Carbunculus.”  
  
Hama leads them down a long and dimly lit hallway until it opens onto a large dinging hall. It’s empty save but at the end of it where waits the man on the throne and his entourage. Loki.  
  
Outside of similar physical traits, Luca and Loki are nothing alike. Where Luca is like a large dog, loyal and friendly until his family is threatened, Loki’s a fox. Probably not on your side, definitely on his own and a mind filled with cunning and malice. His green irises shine in the darkness that is his black sclera. Roland frowns; he doesn’t remember the king’s eyes looking like that. A long-haired woman stands by his side. She looks at them with nervous eyes.  
  
“And what do we have here?” Loki says with a slow drawl, a devilish smile on his face, revealing sharp fangs. Astolfo’s hands twitch for a weapon that is no longer there. He itches for a kill. Roland throws him a stern look. A man from the shadows behind the throne, wearing an eyepatch on his right eye, leans forwards and whispers something in the king’s ear. A frown flickers over the woman’s face but she says nothing, “Why are you here, Chasseurs?”  
  
“We come as grateful guests.” Roland says and they bow.  
  
“Guests don’t hide under hoods like murderers in the dark.” Astolfo and Roland look at each other and nod and pull off their hoods. Astolfo’s stomach churns and clenches like it might try to escape his body at any moment. This is the moment of truth. The moment where they find out whether their faces are known enough for them to be recognised or not. Technically speaking, they were both Oriflammes citizens before becoming Chasseurs but they weren’t residents of the capital and it seems doubtful the king would know everyone in his kingdom by name and face.  
  
The smile disappears from Loki’s face and he spends a few moments staring at them, examining every one of their features. Different conflicting expressions flicker over his face as if he can’t quite decide what his emotions are telling him and which masks he wants to put on. He finally settles on blank neutrality and he leans back into his throne.  
  
“Welcome. Your names?” He finally asks. Astolfo wants to sigh in relief but restrains himself. Roland introduces them again under their fake names and watches as Loki’s lip curl, “I see. It’s becoming quite the trend isn’t it to call oneself by a trait rather than a name. What was _his_ name again?...LeSage?” It was _definitely_ a good idea to not take Olivier. First of all because Loki remembers him and not in a good way and second of all because as royalty (without a crown) Olivier should definitely not be meeting a king they might have to fight against; according to Chloé, it’s not good politics. Astolfo doesn’t really see the problem, it means one vampire less in the world.  
  
“Names are powerful Your Majesty.” Astolfo can’t help but say. Roland looks like he’d willingly chop him to pieces with Durandal but will just have to settle on strangling him. The grin returns to Loki’s face but this one seems more… _genuine._ The woman at his side looks confused but also relieved.  
  
“You’ve got a sense of humour LePetit,” He chuckles before saying to the woman, “Jeanne, can you guide them to their rooms? (Back to them.) I assume you’ll be staying for just a night?” They nod and bow again. Jeanne inclines her head quickly before guiding them out through a side door and deeper into Castle Carbunculus.  
  
Jeanne. There isn’t one person in the Oriflammes kingdom that doesn’t know her name. She’s the unofficial princess, the like-a-sister of the two brothers, close since childhood to the both of them. The one whose parents died trying to protect the old king and queen in the same attack that ended with Loki on the throne and all three of them branded as orphans.  
  
She remains quiet the entire time, lost in thoughts they aren’t privy to, save to tell them she’ll bring them supper after leading them to their room, bare save for the two beds. But they don’t care about the room’s appearance, what they care about is the window. Roland opens it an inch and gazes out. They don’t have a view on the Silver Woods but that doesn’t matter.  
  
Astolfo unlaces his boots and kicks them off. He lies down on the bed and sighs. They’re meant to pretend to be exhausted after a mission but he doesn’t even need to act right now. However, after their strenuous hunt after Faustina’s men, resting is a foreign concept. He squirms a bit, unable to get comfortable. Possibly another aftereffect of the athelas he’s experiencing.  
  
“Get some sleep,” Roland tells him, taking a seat on the windowsill, “We won’t be getting any tonight.”  


***

_“What do you mean we’ll start with the Oriflammes kingdom?” Olivier asks, “Prince Luca did tell us to avoid the capital but he wasn’t exact about what’s happening.”_  
  
 _“We’re dealing with a disguised coup d’état,” Chloé rearranges her skirts, “Welcome to your introduction in politics.”_  
  
 _“I’d rather we didn’t have this conversation,” His lip curls, “But having met Loki, I doubt he’d fall prey so easily to a coup without having made it public some way or another-he does love his dramatics- so continue.”_  
  
 _“Though you don’t like him, Loki is a good king, popular amongst his people. The fact that villages are being attacked with increasing frequency (Roland tenses at the thought of his family) by those Faustina has rallied and that he’s taken no action to stop them was the first indicator that something was wrong. Then I received word from a reliable source inside the palace of Prince Luca’s exile-which coincides with your encounter-of Loki’s changes, including physical.”_  
  
 _“A reliable source?” Roland presses._  
  
 _“I have my ways,” She waves him off quickly, “Though I _am_ worried. The letter I received was vague on Loki’s ailment so Jean-Jacques and I only have theories.”_  
  
 _“Such as?” Olivier says._  
  
 _“He could be a curse bearer for example.” Jean-Jacques says, voice grave, and all of Olivier tenses up at the words. He forces himself to relax._  
  
 _“But we have no proof of that. I suspect Faustina does have a play in this though, her tower isn’t very far away,” Chloé says, “Unfortunately, we can’t storm into the castle completely blind. We need to gather evidence first.”_  
  
 _“So we sneak in and get the information,” Astolfo says, “That’s what you’re suggesting.”_  
  
 _“Yes,” She nods, “But only two of us will do so. Specifically you two.” She points at Astolfo and Roland._  
  
“Excuse me?” _The Chasseurs ask at the same time._  
  
 _“I’m too recognisable and so is Olivier. As for Jean-Jacques, he’s still partly a curse bearer which, if faced with Faustina, could be detrimental to us.”_  
  
 _“Then we’ll find another idea.” Olivier retorts, stubborn. Unfortunately for him, his opponent is just as stubborn and the chances of Chloé backing down are smaller than a merchant letting a client get away with haggling._  
  
 _The heated debate lasts a while, Jean-Jacques fretting nervously between the two with unsuccessful attempts at calming the situation. Astolfo and Roland do nothing, the first too tired to do anything and the second knowing very well Olivier’s fighting a losing battle._  
  
 _Just like that, plan A is devised and a compromise is reached. Astolfo and Roland will be the ones to enter Carbunculus Castle and Olivier will just have to sneak in later._  


***

When night falls, Roland lights a candle and places it next to the open window. Astolfo wipes the remnants of sleep from his eyes but remains in bed, enjoying the last moments of rest. A few minutes later, a grappling hook-courtesy of the Silver Woods’ dhampir community- swings up and Roland reaches out, catching it. He secures it and extinguishes the candle.  
  
Astolfo waits a minute or two before pushing off the bed and stretching his aching limbs. He waits and watches as Olivier’s hand appears and grips the windowsill. Roland seizes it and starts to pull him in. There’s a knock at the door and it starts to open.  
  
“I’ve brought you dinner-” Jeanne stops mid-sentence and stares at the scene. They all freeze. Astolfo reaches for her and she reacts with blinding speed, evading him. Normally, he’d stand a chance but he’s still sluggish from overexertion, the room is small and limits his movements, he has no weapons and she is _fast._ She pushes past him in a blink and, reaching for the collar of his clothes, pulls Olivier in.  
  
“Close the door!” She barks at Astolfo and he obeys. If she wants to close off her exits, that’s fine by him; she’s seen Olivier, she needs to go. She’s somehow managed to place the tray of food on the small rickety table in the corner, if he just grabs one of the knives-Roland gives him a pointed look and he stays where he is, “What were you three thinking, trying to climb into the castle like it were an enemy fortress? What if you’d been seen? Would you have caught the arrows with your neck?” Jeanne snaps at them then throws, _“O, où mettre la clé?”_  
  
“Uh, Chloé?” Olivier says, confused. Jeanne sighs and sits down on one of the beds, “Are you-?”  
  
“The one who sent Chloé a letter? Yes.” She completes. Something melts away from Olivier’s and Roland’s composure and they busy themselves with splitting the stew Jeanne brought in three. Astolfo remains steeled, a prickly thorn bush.  
  
“Why would _you_ betray the crown?” A small flush spreads on Jeanne’s face at Astolfo’s remark.  
  
“My role is, first and foremost, to protect the crown.” She says though she stammers a bit at first.  
  
“Do you know why Loki has changed?” Olivier asks in between two spoonful of stew. Under normal circumstances, he’d think it plain but right now, it’s the most delicious thing in the world.  
  
“…” She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She turns and her long hair, following her movement, piles on one shoulder. There’s a faint mark around her neck, almost invisible to the naked eye but Roland’s be trained to notice those kinds of details. Trained to notice that he’s seen the same kind of thing on Loki’s own neck.  
  
“What’s that?” Roland asks, his curiosity piqued. Her hand flies to it as if to hide it. She chokes and coughs and coughs and coughs. Roland claps her on the back and she gasps for breath. Her eyes are wild and her fangs are out. The Chasseurs instinctively back away, reaching for weapons that aren’t there, “Are you alright?” Roland asks her despite knowing she isn’t. Panic makes way to anger and a fearsome scowl mars her features. She looks ready to attack. Astolfo frowns and something clicks in his mind.  
  
“Can you not speak about it?” Her eyes light up and she points at him. Hope and excitement win over the anger, “Are you under a compulsion?” Her arm freezes before she can point at him again. Her eyes glow red, “Alright. We can figure this out.”  
  
Under Astolfo’s orders, they get a large supply of blood (Olivier hiding his face) and lock themselves in the room. Jeanne eagerly downs one of the gourds.  
  
Slowly but surely, they work through the compulsion. She still can’t speak but her bodily movements remain free up to a certain point. When her arms refuse, they show her books and let her move her fingers to the correct letters. When that stops working, they try to figure it out from the tapping of her feet. And when _that_ doesn’t work, they work it out based on her blinking. From time to time, Roland has her sip blood and the fervent shaking that was starting to seize her calms down.  
  
When she locks her up entirely, her eyes watering from being unable to blink, Astolfo leans back and stops the interrogation. They have enough anyway.  
There’s a curious look in Jeanne’s eyes, one that wonders how he figured it out so quickly. He takes a moment to answer her.  
  
“You’re not the first person under compulsion I’ve encountered. But yours is much stronger than what I’ve seen; must be a more powerful cousin or something.” He thinks about the vampires that had killed his parents. How his sister and he had been put under a compulsion just to be silenced. Not whilst their blood was being drunk-those abominations enjoyed hearing their cries of pain- but when they were allowed a few moment of rest, so as to avoid hearing their sniffling or stop Astolfo from comforting his sister.  
  
He doesn’t tell Jeanne any of that, keeps it hidden away in his heart.  
  
“What you’ve told us is very interesting,” Olivier tells her, “Thank you.” She finishes the last of the blood and Astolfo has to look away. The itch to kill from meeting Loki still hasn’t gone away.  
  
“Can you do something?” She manages to say and looks surprised at the fact that she was allowed to speak.  
  
“Your compulsion was meant to stop you from speaking of this,” Astolfo waves the paper covered in his scrawls of writing, “But now that you’ve managed to bypass that, it’s starting to fall apart. Normally, he’d have to die for you to be free but if this becomes public, it’ll work just as well.”  
  
“It _needs_ to become public; this proof is easily disputed.” Olivier says, thinking _I didn’t even need to come here in the end._  
  
“Can’t you do anything, as paladins?” She asks with a soft smile.  
  
“Outside of our jurisdiction.”  
  
“And as a future king?” Olivier chokes on his stew, “Chloé told me.”  
  
“I’ll be accused of trying to take over the kingdom for my own gain.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” She winces, “I should have thought about that.”  
  
“Thank you,” Roland clasps her hands and Jeanne flushes, “For everything. You’ve truly helped us.” Olivier rolls his eyes.  
  
“I don’t think I should stay here any longer. And neither should you.” She tells Olivier.  
  
“Right. Yes. Of course,” He says awkwardly, “I’ll make my way out.”  
  
“Wait for us outside of Carbunculus, there’s no need for us to stay here,” Roland says.  
  
“Wait outside of the castle then,” Jeanne adds, “I’ll get your weapons and horses. It’ll also make you look less like you ran away if I help.” They nod their thanks and separate, Jeanne collecting their empty bowls and leaving the room in a bustle of skirts, Roland and Astolfo waiting for Olivier to slip out of the window before detaching the grappling hook, closing the window and leaving.  
  
As they wait, realization comes over Astolfo.  
  
“Wait, how did Jeanne send Chloé a letter without knowing where she was?”  


***

“Jeanne?” Chloé asks when Astolfo asks her the same question after finding her and Jean-Jacques in the Silver Woods, “I taught her a spell.” He remembers the letters Chloé used to send, shaped like birds and acting like live ones.  
  
“How? She’s not a witch. And why is she so interesting to you?” Why are so many people interested in vampires? What’s so important about them? They’re vile creatures and even if they like to pretend they can act and feel like humans, they’re all monsters. Why else would they have their true names other than to reveal who they truly are inside? Louis proved it in his final moments and Astolfo doesn’t think he’ll ever understand why Olivier still keeps his sword as much as he tries to wrap his head around it. This Jeanne will only prove to be the same. A part of Astolfo believes the Book shouldn’t be destroyed, at least not before all vampires are gone first.  
  
“Do you know her background?” Chloé asks, unaware of his thoughts.  
  
“Of course I do.”  
  
“What about the Hellfire Witch, have you heard of that?”  
  
“It’s Loki’s official title on the battlefield, isn’t it? He uses his ancestors’ sword as well as the Crimson Gauntlet.”  
  
“Yes but that wasn’t it originally. You see, witches are indistinguishable from humans if they hide their magic. As a child, I was thought to be an ordinary human until the day my powers showed. But sometimes, a vampire is born a witch; this is the Hellfire Witch and there is only one alive at a time in this world. The Oriflammes family often had them in their family until a few generations back where the spark of magic extinguished itself. Jeanne, however, presented signs of being one as a child. Her parents thought she should inherit the throne and well-the results are before you.”  
  
 _“Her_ parents killed Loki’s parents?” His eyes widen in surprise. If that’s true, then Jeanne shouldn’t even be alive and should have been executed for her parents’ treason.  
  
“Loki and Luca were too attached to her to let her die so August-August Ruthven the advisor-pulled some strings.” Chloé says, reading his expression.  
“Does she still possess magic?”  
  
“It isn’t something you can lose so easily,” She snorts, “I haven’t seen her in years but the fact that she remembered my spell shows she still knows it. If I had to guess, she probably repressed her powers; not very healthy but no-one should have to feel responsible for their family’s death,” She sends him a look he ignores, “Very well, let’s move on. What did you three find? Who’s responsible for Loki’s behaviour?”  
  
“Your dear Ruthven.” Astolfo hands her the papers and watches her expression shift from confused to angry to disappointed and finally, to just tired.  
  
What they’ve found is rather simple in the end. Ruthven has a power like Noé does but instead of seeing memories, his is to give one command to someone once bitten. Loki, they suppose, swore to give up his true name. Then Luca got banished, which gave Ruthven even more free room. As for Jeanne, she must have been suspected of knowing the truth and forced to keep quiet; fortunately for them, quiet doesn’t mean forgetting her memories. None of it, though, explains why. Why not have Jeanne turn into a curse bearer too? Unless she couldn’t be as witch or would be too volatile to control?  
  
“It seems all of my old friends are banding together,” Her mouth twists bitterly, “First Faustina, now August. At least I seem to be gaining back those I thought lost.” She glances at Jean-Jacques and her features soften. Astolfo’s heart clenches.  
  
“What do we do now?” Roland asks, unaware of Astolfo’s inner turmoil. Astolfo doesn’t understand. What are these emotions bubbling up inside? He knows anger and disappointment and grief but this is new. Is this…jealousy? No, jealousy is for what you already have. He doesn’t have someone who supports him unconditionally.  
  
“I think you forgot to ask what Jean-Jacques and I have been doing,” She says, “We’ve discovered something very interesting, Faustina hasn’t made one sign of life in her tower as if she weren’t there anymore.”  
  
“What she’s doing,” Jean-Jacques covers his fanged mouth when he catches Astolfo staring, “Is using Loki as some sort of vessel as Naenia. At least that’s what we suppose.” Astolfo and Roland stiffen, if that’s true, they could have been caught immediately just by walking inside Carbunculus Castle. But Loki still seems to be mostly present for them to be ignored. That, or Naenia has another plan involving them. The thought chills them.  
  
Chloé redirects their energy to the drawing she’s started making with her staff and starts explaining her idea of a plan, the others throwing in improvements until something starts to come together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to school, I haven't had as much time to write recently and so will be unable to upload weekly in the near future. Thanks for understanding


	8. Malnomen's Curse

Spending extensive time with Moreau is a gruelling task. To Vanitas, he’s just a scar from the past, a pest he won’t feel sorry for when he gets rid of it. But he knows that Moreau’s presence grates on Noé’s nerves. It’s not a reaction Vanitas expected but he comes to understand why when Noé snaps at Moreau to stop calling Vanitas a number. It almost makes their deal with Moreau fall apart and Vanitas is furious _-how dare Noé assume what he wants, Vanitas already goes under a fake name, what’s one more to the list?-_ but he eventually mellows out. They’re both too stubborn to give up in normal circumstances but right now, they need each other. So Noé lets Moreau call Vanitas No. 69 and Vanitas lets Noé think his action touched him.  
  
Did it? He isn’t sure but there’s a warmth in his chest when thinks about it that isn’t the same warmth he associates with anger.  
  
“Where are you leading us?” Noé calls out to Moreau. The rocky ground from before has now turned to squelching mud. Mists swirl around them. Vanitas can already tell they’re heading towards a marsh.  
  
“Malnomen’s curse,” Moreau hisses back, “Bad fire.” His voice fades into mutterings but Vanitas doesn’t miss the fact that Moreau compares the flames to his eyes. Vanitas’ curiosity can’t help but be awoken. He wants- no he _needs_ to know more about the raid on Moreau’s lab, why Misha was taken, why Vanitas got to survive, why his arm bears that mark, why his eyes changed colour- There are so many questions. He _hates_ not knowing.  
  
“Vanitas,” Noé catches up to him, “Why is it called that?” He wants to laugh at Noé’s seemingly unending confidence in his knowledge. He needs sleep if that’s what his sense of humour has been reduced to.  
  
“I suppose many curse bearers were executed here.” He answers as the inevitable thoughts of Louis fill his mind. He carefully schools his features, vampires are always destined to hurt him, just like humans, but he won’t allow Noé to find out about this. It’s not to protect him. No, it’s Vanitas’ own selfish desire. He doesn’t want to see the hatred he feels so often reflected in Noé’s eyes as he comes to the realisation that Vanitas has never been worth the trouble he’s put himself through. Vanitas doesn’t understand why he’s delaying the inevitable- he’s always been testing Noé’s limits in the hopes he might once have enough and never come back. For the moment, that plan has backfired and Vanitas doesn’t like how a part of him is glad at this fact.  
  
“That’s…unfortunate.” A twinge of sadness passes over Noé’s face. Vanitas knows he’s thinking about how they saved Prédateur but couldn’t save Jean-Jacques and by association Chloé. Like how he managed to save the Book but couldn’t save Misha.  
  
“It’s salvation,” He answers, tone somewhat terse, “What else could they do?”  
  
“Try to find a cure, anything to alleviate the curse.”  
  
“And you don’t think they did?” He shoots back, a helpless sort of laugh rising out of his mouth. Noé frowns, “There _is_ no cure. At least not any that would be willingly given out.” He adds thinking of Vanitas of the Blue Moon.  
  
“I don’t believe that. If Naenia-whatever she is- can take names I don’t see why there wouldn't be someone _somewhere_ who can give them back.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous and the odds are-”  
  
“Higher than you think,” Noé cuts in, “We’ve seen a lot of things by now that we thought were fairy tales.”  
  
“Think whatever you want to think Noé but you’re being ridiculous. Hope isn’t going to solve all of our problems.”  
  
“No but it can help.” He retorts. Vanitas makes the most derisive sound he can and leaves Noé behind. Forget sticking together, he should have never listened to his emotions.  


***

Frustration simmers under Noé’s skin but he forces it back down. Instead, he frowns at Vanitas’ back. Why can’t they have one normal conversation?  
  
Well, he supposes, that’s part of what makes their friendship so interesting. Is it friendship? Vanitas would deny it. Noé’s always been willing to deny it but now, he’s not so sure.  
  
Something in his chest clenches, almost painfully. They shouldn’t be arguing about such simple subjects, they only have each other here. He readjusts his bag properly onto his shoulders and looks up. Thick mist swirls around him.  
  
He’s lost them. His stomach drops.  
  
“Vanitas?” He calls in the softest tone possible. He doesn’t want to awaken anything living here, “Doctor?” No answer. A shiver runs down his spine.  
  
Careful of his every movement, he continues in what he thinks is the right direction. He isn’t like Vanitas with his good memory of maps nor is he like Moreau who’s been here before.  
  
Something blue flickers at the corner of his vision. He whips around. Nothing.  
  
“Vanitas?” He tries again, a bit louder this time. Is Vanitas ignoring him on purpose? No, he’s petty at times but not in such a way. Despite everything, Noé knows there’s a heart in Vanitas.  
  
More blue in the distance. Noé follows at a faster pace. His feet squelch into the marsh’s cold murky water but he doesn’t care. His priority is finding Vanitas again. He’s desperate enough by now that he’ll even take finding Moreau first for some familiarity… Maybe not, on second thought.  
  
Despite how quickly he wades through the swamp, he can’t seem to catch up to Vanitas. And then the blue disappears.  
  
 _What?_  
  
He pauses and his foot snags on something, almost sending him sprawling into the water. He regains his balance. He looks down, searching for what tripped him. He gasps.  
  
Vanitas lies under the surface of the water. His hair floats around his face and his eyes are closed. He looks…peaceful. Blue flowers-Astérisques- cover the majority of his body.  
  
Noé stumbles closer and a ripple passes over the water. There seems to be no change until-something pulses and pushes under Vanitas’ skin, near his eyebrow. His eyelids snap open, revealing only one eye. A worm wriggles out of his empty eye socket and sneaks around into his ear. Patches of skin slough off as he starts to rise out of the water.  
  
“…No-é…” He croaks, a skeletal hand reaching out to brush Noé’s cheek. Noé shudders but finds his feet frozen to the ground, “Noé, come with me.” His voice is softer this time but still a crude imitation of Vanitas’. Still, Noé finds he can’t move away as he- it- Vanitas shambles a bit closer to him. They’re inches apart now and Vanitas’ putrid breath fans out over his face. Vanitas’ jaw unhinges, his mouth opening much wider than it should as he leans forwards towards him.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing Noé?” Noé finds himself pulled back as a hand grabs his collar and pulls him back to the shore. The apparition- because that, he realises with a growing horror, is what he’s been facing- grins, baring its teeth at him, and sinks under the surface. He gazes up at the real Vanitas and grasps his forearm to extract himself from the water. Weeds cling to his legs, trying to pull him down.  
  
“Thank you.” As per usual, Vanitas looks uncomfortable at his expression of gratitude but doesn’t let go of Noé just yet.  
  
“Just be more careful next time. Moreau said the fire was bad.” He ends up saying. Noé watches him go, mystified. Would it kill Vanitas to admit he cares for once? Probably. Vanitas’ other words register, was that blue flash he’d been following flames?  
  
He follows but can’t shake the image of the apparition from his mind.  
  
“Vanitas, wait.”  
  
“What?” He throws Noé an exasperated look over his shoulder but still stops in his tracks.  
  
“What was that thing?”  
  
“You tell me, I have no clue.” Vanitas looks very disgruntled at admitting such a fact.  
  
“Maybe,” Noé pauses, “Maybe it’s because of all the curse bearers that were executed. Maybe something remained after their deaths.”  
  
“…It’s a sound theory.” Vanitas says after a moment of consideration and Noé feels warmth spread through his chest at the rare praise.  
  
“Did you see anything?”  
  
“No because I listened to Moreau and avoided the fire.” He snips back.  
  
“He wasn’t the most articulate in his explanation.” Noé retorts.  
  
“Come on, let’s go find Moreau before he decides to give us the slip.”  
  
“Good idea but that might prove to be difficult.” Noé gestures at the mist surrounding them.  
  
“Not really. When I noticed you’d disappeared, I told him to stay put. We only have to retrace my steps.” Vanitas points at his footprints, clearly imprinted in the mud. He looks smug.  
  
Like Vanitas predicted, finding Moreau is simple enough. He’s skittish, almost frantic, as if he were worried for their safety. No, not for their safety but what they’ve both promised him at the end of their quest. Hopefully, that won’t happen. Noé isn’t normally one to go back on his word but these are special circumstances. He doesn’t want to end up on a dissection table.  
  
“Come, come, must _go.”_ Moreau urges, already darting ahead.  
  
That’s when the screaming starts.  
  
It rakes against Noé’s skin, the sound sharper than any he’s heard so far. He clutches at his head, fingernails digging into his temples as if he can claw the sound out. It’s the worst sound he’s ever heard.  
  
It stops and he doubles over, head ringing. Vanitas’ face is drawn and pale but he doesn’t seem as affected as Noé. Moreau trembles from head to toe but he’s barely reacted to the sound, almost as if it’s familiar.  
  
“The rider, the black rider! Hide!” Moreau hisses before skittering away. There’s the flap of leathery wings getting closer and Noé staggers over to Vanitas, tackling him to the ground and pulling his cloak over them the best he can. It shifts colour into a dull brown mottled with green just as a large shadow passes over them.  
  
Vanitas lets out a hiss of pain, clutching his forearm. It burns, in a way he didn’t think possible, and he feels his eyes start to roll towards the back of his head. Noé holds him closer as he tries to stop the writhing that possesses him.  
  
There’s another screech from the winged creature and Noé’s grip increases unconsciously. Vanitas’ breath is laboured, coming in quick, heavy successions as he tries not to scream. White lab coats, covered in dried bloodstains, flicker in and out of his vision.  
  
 _“Big brother, are you here?_ ” shrieks Misha. Vanitas’ eyes widen and he shakes harder. Familiar, childish screams ring in his ears.  
  
The sound of the wings fades but Noé waits a few more seconds before throwing the cloak off of them. Vanitas’ shaking subsides but he still needs Noé’s support in order to stand. All colour has drained from his face with the pain and blood stains his gloves where his nails pierced skin. Noé has to turn away at the sight.  
  
“Come, come!” Moreau reappears, waving them over, “Before No. 71 comes back!”  
  
“That was real?” Vanitas mutters, still delirious.  
  
“Very real unfortunately,” Noé tells him, “It seems like he’s making the rounds.”  
  
“Quick! _Quick!”_ Moreau urges.  
  
“I could send him back.” Vanitas’ words are slurred but his hands are swift as they reach for the Book. Noé swats them away.  
  
“Don’t,” He warns, “It’ll only attract him to us and it might not even work.”  
  
“It did at the Archivistes' Castle.”  
  
“But you didn’t use it on Misha, only the other members of Charlatan.” Vanitas doesn’t reply as another wave of pain racks him. Upon witnessing this, Noé dives back down to the ground and hides them. The creature swoops past again and they hold their breaths as it disappears for good with a sinister promise from Misha: _“Don’t worry big brother, I’ll find you.”_  
  
Something lifts in Vanitas’s chest and he finds he can breathe with ease again. He jerks away from Noé the moment he thinks he can walk on his own.  
  
“Let’s leave, shall we?” Noé suggests.  
  
“Let’s.” Vanitas agrees.  


***

Vanitas and Noé are both deeply asleep when Moreau’s reflection comes alive. They managed to go through the marsh with no further incidents but the encounter with Misha has left them exhausted to the core and their guard has slipped, meaning Moreau is not under the surveillance of one of them.  
  
Moreau passes one of his hands over the surface of the pool of water they’re staying by. It ripples, erasing his image temporarily. It isn’t like the swamp, where he saw No. 69 and that vampire strapped to dissection tables, a scalpel in Moreau’s hand. He clenches his fists and slaps the surface of the water.  
  
His old face comes back to greet him.  
  
“What do you want?” He asks, sullen. He doesn’t really like his reflection. Of course, he’ll never like anything as much as his precious, his precious precious Book. His reflection is as mean as it is helpful and it seems to have come for the former today.  
  
“Here to help.” His reflection grins at him toothily. _Liar,_ Moreau thinks.  
  
“Help? Don’t need your help.”  
  
“They’re using you.” His reflection turns hateful, features twisted in rage.  
  
“No, no, _no!”_ How dare his reflection say that? No. 69 would _never_ betray him.  
  
“Yes, they are,” It hisses, “Weak. You’ll never become a vampire.”  
  
“I will. No. 69 promised!”  
  
“He’s a _liar._ Filthy, filthy liar.” It spits.  
  
“No, no,” Moreau clutches at his ears but the whispers don’t fade, only intensify to a scream, _“You’re_ the liar!” He hits the water again.  
  
His old face disappears and he stares, the droplets rolling off of his skin. The monster has been defeated.  
  
In the distance, the mountainous border of the Blue Moon’s land gazes at them. 


	9. Unwise Decisions

Olivier wakes up to familiar screams and roaring echoing in his ears, a chorus of nonsensical whisperings from a night long ago. He frowns and wipes any remains of sleep from his face. He hasn’t had this particular nightmare in years.  
  
A headache starts to pound between his temples and he resists the urge to curse. Why is this starting again? Especially in these circumstances, he doesn’t need any distractions.  
  
He gazes around. Dawn, his usual time for waking up, hasn’t even broken through the thick cover of night; it seems like he might have an hour or so before they depart for Carbunculus once again.  
  
Someone else is awake, sitting up in the darkness. Jean-Jacques. Olivier shuffles over to him.  
  
“Good morning.” Olivier says, tone somewhat stilted. He can’t quite wipe away the image of the Beast that Jean-Jacques used to be.  
  
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” Jean-Jacques asks. Olivier reads only sincerity in his eyes which he finds odd, Jean-Jacques must have seen him wake up in a fitful manner.  
  
“Fine. How was your rest?”  
  
“Fine,” Jean-Jacques echoes. Oh, so they’re both lying. Olivier is about to go on a walk to clear his head when Jean-Jacques speaks up again: “You’re Charlemagne’s descendant, aren’t you?”  
  
“I am.” He says stiffly. The last person to have addressed the subject was Louis. Louis, who’s now dead. Louis, whose sword is at his belt and it seems to burn at the mention of its previous owner. Olivier feels like it’s searing into his side. Jean-Jacques looks him straight in the eyes but says nothing. Olivier frowns and turns away.  
  
“You were crying out for someone in your sleep.” Jean-Jacques says, voice barely audible.  
  
“Who?” He already knows the answer even as Jean-Jacques tells him:  
  
“Aude. You seemed to be trying to warn her of a danger.” Olivier can help it and he stiffens, ice chilling his heart. He hasn’t heard that name out loud in at least a decade.  


***

After that declaration, Olivier leaves their campsite and takes the walk he’d planned to calm his nerves. It manages to work, soothing away most of his anxieties. This adventure, he manages to convince himself, is unique and so it’s only natural for the past to resurface. It’s happened a lot over the course of their voyage, first with Chloé’s link with the Gévaudan mines and then with Vanitas’ own return to Moreau’s lab. There was also the case of Charlatan’s leader having been close to Vanitas…  
  
“What’s on your mind now?” Roland pipes up next to him and Olivier starts, hand flying to Hauteclaire’s hilt instinctively. He scowls at him in the fiercest way possible. It doesn’t work.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“That’s not what I asked.”  
  
“He looks the same as always Roland, quit fussing.” Astolfo says between two mouthfuls of the breakfast Jean-Jacques has prepared. With that, Olivier waves Roland off and grabs his own portion of food. They chew in silence, Astolfo bristling slightly when Jean-Jacques passes near him, before Chloé joins them. She comes from deep inside the forest, Olivier wonders if she’s also having nightmares. He wouldn’t be surprised, this quest is changing them all.  
  
“I hope you’re all prepared,” Chloé says, “This is going to be a decisive moment in the fate of this world and all three of you need to remember to keep a cool head. Even if he is a curse bearer, we cannot kill Loki; we’d throw the kingdom in a chaos it would be unable to extract itself.”  
  
“We know, Chloé. You’ve already told us.” Roland tries to reassure her.  
  
“I know, I just believe it should be repeated.” Inevitably, her eyes flick to Astolfo who frowns and abandons the conversation, going to feed their horses. The sight brings a question to Olivier’s mind.  
  
“Where’s _your_ horses?” He asks Chloé and Jean-Jacques, “Or do we have to carry you?”  
  
“We have only three horses,” Astolfo says, “We can share but we’ll be slowed down.”  
  
“Oh that’s fine,” Jean-Jacques says, “Chloé can hold on to me.” As he speaks, his body contorts and writhes until he becomes a horse-sized version of the Beast he once was. Despite the audible snapping of bones as they shift and adapt, he betrays no pain, “I told you, my name is incomplete. Most of my vampire abilities seem to have gone to this form.” He says in a growl, his pronunciation of words slow due to his large fangs.  
  
“Is there a chance of you losing your mind again?” Roland asks. His tone is nonchalant and his face betrays no emotion but Olivier knows he’s taking everything into account, making his own calculations and his own plans.  
  
“A chance? There’s always a chance of something happening,” He says, “But considering what Chloé did, it’s a small one.” He adds after realising his philosophical musings aren’t appreciated. He lowers himself to the ground and, after slipping on her usual grey hat and cloak to hide her silver dress, Chloé hops onto his back, twining her fingers into his fur. He emits a low purr.  
  
“It isn’t perfect but we make it work. But one day, I’ll make sure he doesn’t need this form anymore,” She makes direct eye contact with Olivier, “Now, let’s change a kingdom.” She says.  


***

Despite having made the ride to Carbunculus yesterday and knowing how long it takes, Olivier feels like it’s been stretched, time now as slow as pooling oil, as if he’s still dreaming. Of course, Roland is always there to wake him up.  
  
“So, what did you think of Lady Jeanne?” Roland rides up to his height, grinning. Olivier knows where this conversation is going. Roland has always been a flirt. Astolfo groans and lets his horse hang back so it doesn’t look like he’s part of this. Chloé and Jean-Jacques ride ahead, the Beast being much quicker than their horses. Olivier is still slightly shocked by the sight of it all. When did his life become this?  
  
“She was pretty,” He offers curtly. He isn’t one to focus on the physical appearance of others, not as much as Roland anyway, “Not as much as me though.” He isn’t vain, just realistic, he tries to tell himself.  
  
“Of course, Olivier’s beauty is incomparable!” Roland cheers. Astolfo lets out what might just be the longest sigh Olivier’s ever heard which is impressive because Olivier has been the undisputed champion for years.  
  
“Yes, well do avoid fooling around,” He warns, “I can’t clean up your messes all the time.”  
  
“Don’t worry, I’m always careful Oli!” The snort that was building up in Olivier’s throat stops halfway and he almost chokes. Roland hasn’t called him that since they were ten. His heart pangs. He hadn’t realised how much he’s missed the familiar nickname. Why had Roland stopped?...Oh right, because the Chasseurs had taken them in and taught Roland to address royalty properly and taught Olivier not to mingle too much with people like Roland. They’d worked around those warnings but things had never quite been the same.  
  
A smile involuntarily tugs at his lips and he forces it back. He can’t let Roland know how happy that makes him or he’d never hear the end of it.  
  
“Whatever.” He huffs and he knows the tips of his ears have turned pink because Roland laughs. His joy is cut short, however, when they reach the gates of Carbunculus and silence falls on their group. Even though Jean-Jacques has turned human again before entering the town and Chloé and he have commissioned one of their horses (Astolfo now riding with Roland), Olivier still expects someone to point out that Jean-Jacques is a curse bearer even if he displays no signs of being one. They do attract looks but it’s for different reasons; everyone knows who Chloé is, her presence must signify trying times. And these _are_ trying times.  
  
Astolfo and Roland both recognise the guard at the doors of the castle as Hama, though he seems like he’s had more sleep since. Hama sighs upon seeing them, the disappearance of their guests last night had caused quite the stir. The fact that they’re accompanied by a man he recognises as LeSage and Chloé the Grey isn’t reassuring either.  
  
“What’s your business?” Hama says. He has a bad feeling about this but he’ll follow protocol anyway.  
  
“We request an audience with your King.” Chloé says. Hama sighs again and Astolfo can’t help but feel a tiny bit sorry for him.  
  
“I don’t believe his Majesty is ready to receive guests,” Chloé gives him a frigid smile and he stammers, “Of- of course, protocol is different in times of crises.”  
  
“Which is exactly why we’re here.” At her words, Hama takes off his helmet and passes a hand through his hair.  
  
“Your weapons, then.” He motions at another guard to help him. Roland is the first to hand Durandal on to the second guard. Astolfo follows with Louisette and Chloé does the same with her own sword. Olivier gives his too and the guard struggles under the combined weight.  
  
Astolfo frowns upon seeing Louis’ sword. He doesn’t understand why Olivier carries it around; he already has Hauteclaire and as Charlemagne’s descendant, that’s the only sword he should use. In fact, he doesn’t understand Olivier and Louis’ friendship- if friendship there was. Vampires are evil and however kind Louis and Noé seemed, it was only an act and sooner or later, they’d drop the charade. Astolfo doesn’t think he’s had one night of peaceful sleep with them around. He would never voice it aloud, for fear of the disappointment Roland would express, but he doesn’t believe Vanitas is safe if Noé’s with him. If he’s even alive right now; Astolfo supposes he is because the world hasn’t ended yet.  
  
“And you?” Hama turns to Jean-Jacques.  
  
“Him? He couldn’t hurt a fly,” Chloé says. Jean-Jacques tries to make himself as meek and small as possible and succeeds. Ironic, since all of him _is_ a weapon. Astolfo avoid looking at him, he doesn’t want to give away his true feelings and set off Hama’s suspicions.  
  
“Hmph. Your stick, Chloé the Grey.”  
  
“Now, I’m older than I look,” She knocks it gently against his skull, “You wouldn’t deprive an old woman of her walking stick now would you?”  
  
“But-”  
  
“How kind of you to understand.” She smiles and pushes past him inside. They follow, Hama hot on their tail.  
  
Like yesterday, Loki is sitting on his throne and a grin splits open the lower half of his face upon seeing them. Jeanne and Ruthven are there too, the former looking very nervous and the latter cool and collected. The sight already sets Astolfo’s blood boiling.  
  
“Ah, it’s good to see the whole group gathered again!” Loki exclaims, something devilish gleaming in his eyes.  
  
“Your Majesty, how are you doing?” Chloé curtsies and they bow with her.  
  
“I was doing fine,” Loki drums his fingers on his throne’s armrest, “But then a certain bearer of bad news appeared along with a wolf with no claws, a ‘king’ with nothing to his name and two of my guests who left like they were thieves.”  
  
“Apologies but we have a quest to accomplish.”  
  
“And so that gives you the right to saunter into my castle?”  
  
“None of this belongs to you.” Chloé thunders and flings an arm out. Thunder claps in the hall, accompanied by a flash of light, leaving them all blind and deaf. When they recover, they see that Loki is standing, unfazed, the stupid grin still on his face.  
  
“Did you really think that would work? Come now Chloé, you should know better.” Loki’s voice splits, Naenia’s voice overlapping with his and confirming all of their doubts; Loki is being possessed by her.  
  
“So should you.” Chloé answers. Loki hisses and a flicker of annoyance passes over his face.  
  
“Guards, take her staff!” He yells as Chloé starts casting her spell. The guards circle around, trapping them. Astolfo cracks his knuckles, this promises to be fun.  


***

“No killing. Only make them unconscious.” Jean-Jacques reminds them. Despite how weak he is now, he’s remained in human form; he doesn’t want Naenia to curse him again. Unfortunately enough, he isn’t used to brawling so he’s mostly ducking and dodging rather than hitting back.  
  
“Easier said than done!” Olivier retorts, “Just go down, you blasted man!” He yells in pure frustration at Hama, who he’s facing, dodges his every swing. It’s been ages since he’s fought someone with a weapon without one of his own; he’s rusty. They aren’t using athelas either- they’ve used too much in the past few days for it to be safe- so they’re considerably slowed down.  
  
Astolfo and Roland fight back to back, something Olivier knows Astolfo will whine about later, but at least they’re still standing. The guards outnumber them but they’re mostly human and so, as paladins, that puts them at a better footing; you’d think that after their previous king and queen died by assassination that they’d have added more vampires. Olivier will complain later.  


***

Jeanne watches from behind the throne, two guards in front of her as if to block her. She knows they don’t agree with this possessed Loki but they don’t dare do anything against him just in case. No-one does. No-one except her.  
  
She breaks into a sprint, pushing past the guards. They don’t stop her. She clenches her fist and lunges. Loki steps to one side, as if he’d been expecting her strike. He smirks at her and raises a hand, energy thrumming at his palm.  
  
She goes flying, straight towards Chloé but the vampire that came with her catches her at the last second. He sets her down and has to redirect his attention to the fight as he gets swarmed. Fine. She clenches her jaw and trips one of those attacking the vampire. He gives her a quick smile and shakes the rest off with ease.  
  
They need to finish this quickly, Jeanne realises, or they’ll finally be overwhelmed and Chloé’s spell will fail. Jeanne turns, sees Olivier and leaps into the air. Her foot makes contact with Hama’s jaw and he collapses. Jeanne doesn’t believe it for one moment, she’s seen him sustain blows stronger than that and stay conscious the whole time; he’s helping in his own way. Hama’s a good man. Olivier nods his thanks, looking somewhat bitter.  
  
Loki jerks his hand and the guards- including Hama- still, black smoke pooling out of their mouths down to their feet where it evaporates. Loki snickers, a familiar yet unearthly sound coming out of his mouth and they both turn to him. The air is heavy with magic and clashing spells but he looks unfazed.  
  
Hama rises behind them, quiet as a ghost, and grabs their long braids. Pain flares in their skulls and he drives them to their knees with a strength he hadn’t possessed before- a strength he’s never possessed. The rest of the garrison overwhelms the others quickly enough and Chloé’s staff is taken from her hands.  
  
“I am _going_ to cut my hair off.” Jeanne growls.  
  
“What kind of sorcery is this?” Olivier snarls.  
  
_“Sol Invictus-_ the uncrowned king,” Loki smirks, “This body has an interesting true name.” Jeanne makes a ragged sound. He’s been turned into a curse bearer. _He’s been turned into a curse bearer, the equivalent of a death sentence._  
  
_“Give him back!”_ She roars and Loki flinches.  
  
“Calm down!” Chloé yells before Jeanne can reveal her powers as a Hellfire witch or accidentally give her own name away. Chloé scowls. _Sol Invictus_ can make puppets of those who had previously sworn loyalty to him; it’s a name only found in royal lineages and it’s also a miracle Jeanne isn’t under its sway. Maybe it’s because she hasn’t actually sworn an oath. Or maybe a trace of Loki is still in there. Loki recomposes himself and laughs, picking up Chloé’s staff as he does so.  
  
“How pitiful Chloé. Did you really believe this half-formed rebellion could go against me? A pleasure to see you all again by the way, especially you Jean-Jacques.” The grin widens.  
  
“Who says this is the only trick up my sleeve?” Chloé cocks her head to one side, “As you said before, only an idiot relies just on their staff.” She slaps her palms against the ground. There’s the sound of the crack of a whip and-  
  
Jeanne believes she’s hallucinating. She has to be because this can’t be possible.  
  
Chloé stands before them, glowing as bright as a star in the sky. Her eyes shine molten silver. Her cloak flies off and the light intensifies, radiating off of her ethereal dress. When she speaks, it is in an arcane language Jeanne doesn’t recognise. Loki does because he hisses and recoils.  
  
“How _dare_ you impersonate me?” He cries though the female voice rises louder than his normal one. Chloé ignores him in favour of accelerating the rhythm of her words, turning them into a song whose lyrics weave in and out of one another. Loki lets out a dreadful howl and Jeanne feels like she’s taken a punch to the gut. The last time she’d heard him make a sound like that was when he’d heard his parents were dead, “Do you really think _you_ can get rid of me?” His skin is glowing now, a gold that highlights his veins and arteries; it looks like he’s about to break apart, “No matter what you do, he’s doomed.”  
  
Only the female voice speaks now, a malevolent whisper that twists and mars Loki’s features: “You won’t be rid of me that easily.” His eyes roll back in his head and he falls forwards. Hama’s grip relaxes, the guards’ consciousness returning, and Jeanne runs forwards, stopping Loki from smashing his nose in the floor. She checks his pulse and almost bursts into tears out of relief: it’s beating. The mark on his neck is gone too.  
  
“Now that that’s done,” Chloé dusts her hands off and snatches her staff back from a confused-looking guard, “Let’s talk about serious matters,” Jeanne wonder what an emergency is like in her mind if she’s so nonchalant at this, “August, what do you think?”  
  
“I…I don’t know. A lot has happened.” Ruthven slinks out from behind the throne. Astolfo grins at him and Jeanne thinks that out of the two of them, the predator isn’t the one they think.  
  
“Ugh,” Loki jerks up and scrambles to his feet, groaning, “Everything hurts. What-“ His head snaps up, his gaze primal, wild. Wrong.  
  
“My boy, take a seat before you further injure yourself.” Ruthven advises in his fatherly tone. It drips off of Jeanne in oily, slimy waves and she snarls. Loki remains standing but slumps against a wall.  
  
“You’re the one who did this!” Jeanne accuses and brings her hand to her neck in surprise. She can speak her mind again, she’s free. Something passes over Ruthven’s face, something shocked but furious.  
  
“Come now Jeanne,” He says, “I know times are hard but there’s no need to turn on each other.” She hates how reasonable his tone is, how it makes her want to accept it as pure truth and cry her apologies. Ruthven practically raised her.  
  
“You put me under your oath! And you put Loki under it too!”  
  
“I think, August, that you owe us some explanations. In the name of our long friendship.” Chloé adds as an afterthought.  
  
“I have no explanation to give you.” He says.  
  
“I think you do.” Loki says and Ruthven freezes. They can’t see what he’s doing but Jeanne can take a good guess and her eyes widen. The wall he’d been leaning against has the case where his father’s sword is displayed. He must have been faking his pain or at least, struggling through it hard enough to be able to lift the weapon to Ruthven’s back, the point digging into his ribs, “Because unlike what you think, I remember everything you did to me. You’re getting old, _Teacher.”_ He continues, sarcasm dripping from the last word. His grin, this time, is all crooked edges but it’s genuine and purely Loki’s.  


***

Ruthven tumbles down the steps in front of the castle in his urge to get away. Loki lets him reach the first landing before starting to walk down. The sun shines off the top of his head in its own crown of light.  
The townspeople gather at the bottom of the stairs, blocking his exit path. Roland stiffens upon spotting a head of blond curls like him, he’d forgotten his family had moved to the capital last year. Loki lifts the sword high above his head and the sunlight glints off of it, blinding Ruthven. He lifts a hand to protect his remaining eye. The sword falls.  
  
And lands at the base of Ruthven’s throat, barely drawing blood.  
  
_“Leave,”_ Loki hisses, the smile no longer on his face, “Before I change my mind.” He knows Ruthven can only use his power on him once so he’s safe now. And even if he could use it multiple times, he wouldn’t risk it when they’re in public.  
  
For the second time in his life, Loki sees fear on Ruthven’s face, the first having been when his parents had died and Ruthven was left to raise three orphans. It hurts Loki to believe that his Teacher and surrogate father would do this to him; his ties to Ruthven are the only things stopping Loki from slaughtering him.  
  
Ruthven scrambles to his feet and runs down the remaining steps as fast as his feet can carry him. Loki watches him go, quickly leaving his line of sight. He’ll probably take a horse to help him and then- Loki hopes he’ll never have to see him again.  
  
He’s so tired. His head is pounding, his limbs ache and everything feels _strange_ in a way he can’t describe. He’s about to let go of his father’s sword (he’d never thought he’d pick it up, it isn’t his and it feels wrong) when he remembers he’s being watched. Half of Carbunculus looks up expectantly at him.  
  
“Everyone,” He tries for his usual grin and hopes it works, “I’m glad to see you again,” The crowd erupts into cheers and laughter. Some even start to cry. He hadn’t realised his possession had affected them so much; Ruthven’s plan wasn’t as subtle as he’d thought. He raises his hand and they quiet, “I know you have many questions but some things must be sorted. You will be informed of everything very soon, I swear it.” With that, he turns on his heel and goes back into the castle.  
  
Olivier sighs and can’t help but be jealous; Loki has an easy kind of charisma about him that makes his people trust him almost unconditionally.  
  
Loki sighs and slumps down onto his throne, relinquishing his father’s sword to Hama who puts it back in its case. He hopes it’ll never come back out, using it felt _wrong._  
  
“Now that that’s been dealt with, why are you five here?” They’re all provided with chairs and their weapons again, exchange glances between each other, and then Chloé starts to speak.  
  
By the time she’s finishing her tale, Loki is a drained emotionally as he is physically. All he can do is laugh. LeSage- though he goes by Olivier now as far as he’s heard- throws him a murderous glance which he ignores.  
  
“So the world is coming to an end, is it?” He asks, “And what do you want _me_ to do about this?”  
  
“Help us, of course. We need as many allies as possible right now,” He shifts in his seat at Chloé’s words. Jean-Jacques perks up suddenly and looks towards the door:  
  
“There’s something happening outside.” Loki meets Jeanne’s eyes and she goes to check; he’s glad her opinion of him hasn’t changed. She’s back quickly, two children, around ten and seven years old, in tow. _Oh no, what now?_  
  
The children are scrawny and tired and they look terrified at the people they face. The Chasseurs shift around so that their weapons are hidden. Loki moves from his throne to the steps leading up to it so that they’re more or less at the same eye level; their wide eyes remind him of Luca and he doesn’t want to scare them more. Jeanne comes up to him and whispers in his ear:  
  
“They just arrived on horseback from the North. Their village was burned to the ground, a raid of some sorts.” She pulls back and he sees the same conclusion in her eyes: the North of the Oriflammes’ kingdom borders with Faustina’s land, this must be her work.  
  
“Where’s Mum?” The younger child whimpers to the older and Loki is brought back to when they found out their parents died. Loki had been old enough to understand but Luca hadn’t and he’d asked a very similar question.  
  
“Hama, get these children some food, warm clothes and a bed. Chloé and Jeanne, come with me. The rest, you are dismissed.” He declares and stalks out of the hall before protests can be issued. He knows the next time he’ll see Olivier, remarks will be made. Irking the man is so easy it almost isn’t fun anymore.  
  
Loki walks into his room and he wants to collapse onto his bed, he’s so tired, but he has to stay awake. His reflection in the mirror catches his attention. One of his pupils is deformed, as if it’s leaked down the rest of his eye in a mostly straight line. When he sees it, he’s tempted to reach up and wipe it away as if it were a simple stain. He sees Jeanne’s expression tighten. If he isn’t completely normal then he isn’t completely cured.  
  
“I was an impressive curse bearer.” He grins at her.  
  
“You have an inflated ego, is what.” She laughs and ducks as he tries to tug on her hair in retaliation. He sighs upon seeing Chloé’s expression. She looks like she’s grieving.  
  
“It’ll be fine Chloé. If your Jean-Jacques can control himself, so can I.”  
  
“It’s not a matter of control, though Jean-Jacques is already _much_ older than you, it’s a matter of it being a death sentence,” Chloé says, “If Veronica De Sade sees you, she’ll tear you to pieces; her brother died cursed, I’ll remind you.”  
  
“I doubt she’ll take me down that easily,” He snorts and then his voice goes cold, “And since when has Veronica De Sade cared about anyone other than herself?” Her cold attitude towards her family irritates him; family, his whole kingdom, is all _he_ has.  
  
“You’d be surprised. But we aren’t here to discuss old rivalries and petty semantics. You saw those children, you saw what is going to happen. Loki, if the Book falls into Vanitas of the Blue Moon’s hand, the destruction she will wage will make this look like child’s play.” Chloé says. He crosses over to his window and gazes out upon Carbunculus, his people. He’s made his decision. He’d made it the moment he saw those children. He says the words she least wanted to hear.  
  
“I’m sorry Chloé, but I won’t participate in your war.”


	10. An Old Friend

“They’re right _there.”_ Vanitas hisses between his teeth. The Land of the Blue Moon’s gates stand in front of them, ever so close and yet ever so far.  
  
“Too many guards.” Noé says. Vanitas shakes his head at the obvious statement. The place is crawling with them; Vanitas of the Blue Moon is ready to welcome all of her unwelcome guests.  
  
“No. 69 gives us his eye now? And the vampire to the dissection?” Moreau joins them behind the rock they’re hiding behind. His beetle-like eyes are alight with excitement.  
  
“I said when you guided us _into_ the Land of the Blue Moon, Doctor. We’re still outside right now.” Vanitas gives Moreau his docile, overly-sweet smile. It makes Noé’s skin crawl but he has to admit that Vanitas’ acting skills have proven to be very useful up until now. Despite that, anger boils under Noé’s skin and he only barely refrains from punching Moreau in the face; Moreau is the reason behind Vanitas’ acting and Noé hates the fact that he has to be thankful for something Moreau caused.  
  
“Is there another way in?” Noé asks before he lets his emotions get the best of him. His tone might be a little sharp, as seen by the warning glance Vanitas sends him, eyes slightly wide, but Moreau doesn’t seem to notice.  
  
“Yes, yes,” Moreau hisses, exaggerating the ‘s’ sounds, “The secret staircase.”  
  
“You could have brought us there first.” Noé points and he must sound calmer because Vanitas doesn’t look disapproving anymore.  
  
“Might not believe us,” Moreau shakes his head, “And dangerous.”  
  
“How dangerous?” Vanitas asks. Noé can tell that a hint of his usual smirk has made its way to the fake smile. _That_ is almost enough to make Noé laugh; it breaks him out of his bad mood at least.  
  
“Staircase, then tunnel and then, the Tower of Babel,” The name sounds familiar to Noé for some reason and Vanitas asks Moreau what it is, “Charlatan.”  
  
“Is there a third route?” Noé asks. Moreau shakes his head. So they have two options: certain death by the Gates or a slightly lower chance of death through the stairs. It’s not really a choice, Noé realises, “The stairs it is then.” It’s only after saying that that he realises he should have consulted Vanitas in case he had an idea but when he turns around, the other man only shakes his head.  
  
“And then the eye and the vampire?” Moreau asks, “We get our reward?”  
  
“Only after we reach the end of the staircase,” Vanitas says, voice firm leaving no alternative, “You will get what you deserve, Doctor.” He adds in a softer tone.  


***

The guaranteeing of their pact seems to have brought new life to Moreau because when midday arrives, he comes up to them with two rabbits clutched in one hand, freshly dead. Noé is surprised by such an act until he realises Moreau is giving them food so that they live longer and don’t die from starvation. He isn’t actually going to complain because he’s tired of rations and so a change is nice. He misses tarte tatin.  
  
They decide to take a break to eat and Vanitas busies himself with skinning the rabbits to later cook them over a fire. Noé tries to ask Moreau more questions about the staircase but he’s surprisingly mute about the subject. Normally, he won’t stop talking. Noé’s suspicions are raised even higher.  
  
There’s a rumble in the distance and Noé perks up. Vanitas pauses in his task and Noé notices that he’s removed his gloves and that his hands are covered in blood. Noé hasn’t drunk blood in a long while and whilst animal blood shouldn’t tempt him normally, the sight of it combined with the usual enticing smell of Vanitas’ own blood has his stomach rumble quietly. He looks away.  
  
“What was that?” Noé asks. Vanitas shakes his head and quickly finishes skinning the rabbits, wrapping the meat in a piece of cloth. Noé is reminded of the ribbons he’d packed at the bottom of Vanitas’ bag, back when they thought they only had to go to Paris to find Chloé. That was a long time ago. Vanitas wipes his bloodied hands on his trousers and stands up. Noé sees that the mark on his right arm has spread a little more. Looking like he’s regretting it, Vanitas holds a hand out to help Noé up. Surprised, Noé takes it and pulls himself up. Vanitas doesn’t let go immediately and Noé finds he misses the warmth of his palm against his when he does.  
  
“Let’s go.” Vanitas says, avoiding looking at Noé. He assents and they set off. The trees start to thin- not that there were many to begin with- and open up to a large clearing.  
  
Troops march in organized ranks through it, heading for the Blue Moon’s gates. They’re clad in black and are armed, obviously prepared for war, but it doesn’t explain the rumble. Noé and Vanitas lie down on the ground, hoping no-one sees them looking out.  
  
The ground shakes again, harder this time, and, stepping out of the trees and tearing some down as it goes, is an Oliphaunt. Two others follow behind. The four-tusked creatures sport war towers on their back and several archers are posted inside. Noé stares. Oliphaunts have always been part of the storybooks he used to read when he was small, not an animal he thought he’d see up close one day. Their thick hides are said to be impenetrable and if that’s true, they’ll be a force to be reckoned with in battle.  
  
“Those are the Haradrim, from the South,” Noé realises, “If Vanitas of the Blue Moon wishes to start a war, she’s made an alliance with the right people.” His stomach sinks.  
  
“Why does anyone want to work with her, knowing fully well she intends on killing everyone?” Vanitas hisses. It’s a mystery he can’t make sense of and it bugs him terribly. There has to be something more to this.  
  
There’s the sound of a whistle to their left and then one of the Haradrims on the war towers collapses, an arrow sticking out of their neck. Several others are struck with a similar fate. The woods are now rife with activity, cloaked figures rustling about. With his keen eyesight, Noé notices that their tunics are the monochrome colours of the De Sade Regency.  
  
Noé and Vanitas retreat slightly into the bushes as the fight between the two groups truly breaks out but don’t leave just yet. They want to see how this plays out.  
  
The Regency’s group sends wave after wave of arrows on the war towers. At first, Noé doesn’t understand why until one Oliphaunt carries no living person and, upon recognising no-one is guiding it, it lets out a loud trumpeting sound that echoes in their ears a short while after it stops. It veers sharply to the left and heads back into the forest. So they’re not necessarily loyal to the Haradrims if no-one watches them. As the Oliphaunt does so, a body falls off of the war tower and lands near them, close enough that they can see his face, frozen in death. But that isn’t what catches their eye. The symbol on his clothes is that of a chained blue moon. That isn’t Vanitas of the Blue Moon’s symbol, hers is a normal blue moon. But why does it seem familiar?  
  
The answer hits Noé first. He’s always been good with memories, what with being an Archiviste, and it comes back to him with ease. The first time they’d encountered Charlatan, back in Averoigne, they’d been able to tell Misha apart from the other members of Charlatan thanks to the larger design of the blue moon on his back and the chains wrapped around his arms. Is this Charlatan’s symbol then? Is this Charlatan’s army? But why would it be theirs, and not Vanitas of the Blue Moon’s? Vanitas seems to have reached the same conclusion because he’s lost deep in thought, brow furrowed in concentration.  
  
The battle seems to be drawing to a close, the losses starting to even out on both sides as the Haradrims recover from their initial surprise. The Regency’s group begins to retreat, disappearing off into the woods.  
  
“We need to leave.” Vanitas whispers in his ears. Noé jumps at the proximity, tingles running down his spine and nods. He finally manages to tears his eyes from the scene and follows Vanitas back to their campsite.  
  
“Where’s Moreau?” He hoists his bag onto his shoulders and pulls his cape’s hood onto his head. Vanitas does the same.  
  
“I don’t know but I don’t like it. Something doesn’t feel right.” He’s right. The birds have stopped singing and the trees, once comforting, loom over them.  
  
“Is Moreau _this_ creature?” A feminine voice asks behind him. Vanitas’ eyes widen and he pales. There’s the familiar sound of a crossbow bolt being loaded, “Turn around and confirm it.”  
  
They obey her. Moreau is tied up and gagged, his eyes wide with fear. Noé only feels a small amount of pity for him, he’s finally feeling what he did to Vanitas, Misha and the many others before and after them.  
  
“Yes, it’s…him.” Noé holds up his hands and keeps his eyes glued to the ground. These people did just kill some partisans of the Blue Moon’s army but that doesn’t make them. For all they know, they could be a rogue unit acting like bandits. Alliances, he’s beginning to realise, are unnecessarily complicated as well as fickle.  
  
“Take your hoods off and look up,” She orders. Reluctantly, they obey. She gasps upon seeing him, “Noé?”  
  
“Domi?” Behind him, Vanitas groans because somehow, obviously and inevitably, Noé is going to make friends with everyone he meets. It doesn’t make the feeling of nausea curdling in his stomach go away. She looks too much like Louis for his liking especially since the last time he saw Louis, he tried to kill him. It’s a good thing Vanitas is used to adrenaline coursing through his veins otherwise he’d have done something rash.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Domi asks, “Put that down. They’re safe.” She tells her companion holding the crossbow. She doesn’t say anything about freeing Moreau which Noé supposes is the right thing to do.  
  
“I’m so glad to see you!” He cries, dodging her question to embrace her. She startles but returns it.  
  
“Agreed, though I wish it were under different circumstances,” She smiles and grips his shoulders, “And who’s this?”  
  
“My friend Va- I mean Vincent,” He corrects himself, remembering the pseudonym used in Paris. This is definitely not the place for his usual form of address, “Vincent, meet Dominique de Sade, Louis’ sister.”  
  
“I noticed,” He says dryly, “Pleasure.” He tells her. Her smile has been wiped straight off her face.  
  
“So you don’t know,” Vanitas knows that look on her face. That’s grief. Pure, unadulterated grief. His stomach clenches, “Come with me and then we’ll speak.”  


***

Dominique leads them to her Rangers’ refuge, high up inside a craggy cliff. Once there, she shows them to a small pool of clear water where she lends them clothes approximate to their sizes before leaving. They bathe in silence in the cold water, backs turned to each other in a semblance of privacy. Once clothed (Noé laughs at how Vanitas’ clothes are too big for him; not that Vanitas minds too much, that’s his usual style) they head back to warm themselves next to the fire Domi lit in their absence.  
  
“Thank you for everything.” Noé tells her warmly as she sets down two bowls of stew in front of them. Vanitas nods in agreement. Noé can’t help but smile in her presence, he hasn’t seen her in years.  
  
“Hm,” She says. Ever since he introduced Vanitas, she’s been distracted. He searches his memories and no, she didn’t know Vanitas when she’d last come to Averoigne, he’d unfortunately still been in Moreau’s clutches. Then she can’t accuse him of lying about his name, “That… Moreau of yours, quite a baleful creature, isn’t he? I went to give him food and ungagged him. He started saying the most nonsensical things about numbers and dissections.” She shudders.  
  
“Unfortunately, he’s our guide. If we could get rid of him, we would have done so long ago,” Vanitas eats a tentative spoonful, wary of his changed taste buds from Moreau’s experiments. The food is fine. Bland, but fine, “Wait, you didn’t untie him, did you?”  
  
“No, I’m no fool. He’s just got the ability to speak now. I wish he didn’t have a tongue. I had him placed at the back of the cavern,” She nods in that general direction. They sigh in relief at her answer, “Tell me, what is he? He’s not a curse bearer, is he? We’ve been seeing more and more of those recently.”  
  
“No, he’s a different kind of monster.” Domi and Vanitas stare in amazement at Noé who blushes as he realises what he said. He doesn’t try to justify or clarify and continues eating, cheeks burning. Vanitas also concentrates on his food.  
  
“Alright,” Domi says, bemused, “Tell me, how do you two know each other?”  
  
“I’m his gardener.” Noé says.  
  
“Of course. You always loved taking care of plants. Do you remember the flower crowns we used to make?” He nods, smiling again, and she turns to Vanitas, “And you, _Vincent,_ what do you do?” Oh so she knows he lied. She’s always been perceptive.  
  
“I’m a doctor. Or at least trying to become one.”  
  
“We’ll need a lot of those when this is over.” Her smile becomes tinged with sadness. Noé puts his bowl down and clasps her hands, “Domi, what’s happening? What’s wrong?”  
  
“Noé,” she squeezes his hands softly. Too soft, “Louis is dead.” Vanitas makes a small pained sound in the back of his throat but he has no other reaction. He’d guessed it the moment he’d seen her grieving face. No, that’s a lie, he’d known the moment Louis turned on him.  
  
Noé remains frozen, an ice hand reaching around his chest in a vice-like grip. He can’t find it in him to react. Like Vanitas, a part of him has always known. The last time he’d seen Louis, he’d looked like he was dying. Pale, shaking, his eyes red and his fangs so far out they’d almost cut his lower lip. Noé had pretended he hadn’t seen it but he’d noticed how Louis had been tempted to bite him. Had almost bitten him. And Noé might have let him had he tried.  
  
That’s when it hits and he lets go of Domi’s hands to bury his face in his hands. Tears sting his eyes. Guilt, as fierce as when Chloé died, gnaws at him. He could have saved him, could have stopped him from dying.  
  
“Noé,” Vanitas’ hand comes onto his shoulder, “It’s not your fault. I was there too. I could have saved him too.” He nods slowly and looks up. The ice vice doesn’t leave but eases slightly.  
  
“How-” His voice weakens and he has to start again, “How did you know?”  
  
“Prophetic dreams again,” She sighs, “But since you said you were with him and you’re now here, I suppose one of you two have the Book,” They both stiffen and Vanitas’ hands go to his daggers, “I don’t care for it. Not for something that led to my brother’s death. Even if it lay on the ground, all alone, I wouldn’t touch _that thing.”_ She spits.  
  
“A very noble thing to say.” Vanitas says, not believing a word of it. His face softens ever so slightly when Noé sends him one of his chiding looks.  
  
“Your name’s not really Vincent, is it?”  
  
“No but it would be unwise to give it to you in this time.”  
  
“I see,” She lifts her head as one of the Rangers hurries up to her, “What’s wrong?”  
  
“That _thing,_ Moreau or whatever, won’t stop screaming for a vampire. We tried gagging him again but he almost bit my fingers off. What do we do?”  
  
“I’ll take care of it,” Noé rises, eager for a distraction. He doesn’t know why Moreau would choose him over Vanitas but he’ll question it later, “You two continue talking without me.” He follows the Ranger and quickly disappears from view. Dominique turns to Vanitas.  
  
“Say, not-Vincent, what is the exact relationship you have with Noé?”  
  
“Why do you ask?” He gives her a thin smile. Hers disappears.  
  
“You’re obviously the Book bearer. Noé can’t carry it though he’d want to in order to save anyone else from doing so. Thus, Noé shouldn’t have to be here, even if he’s your gardener. So, why is he here? What does he see in you?”  
  
“We’re not as close as you think we are,” His expression becomes neutral- almost bored, “Chloé the Grey told him to protect me and he obeyed. I’d prefer if he didn’t but he still follows me.”  
  
“Hm.” She relaxes ever so slightly. She’s still suspicious but doesn’t voice her doubts.  
  
“And you? What’s your relationship with him? From what I understood from Noé, you two were rather…close.” His eyes flick to hers in a knowing look.  
  
“We were. And I hope we still are despite the many years we haven’t seen each other,” She smiles bitterly, “I wish I’d visited more.” She gets up and retrieves a bottle of honeyed wine to serve them both a glass.  
  
“I’m glad you didn’t. We would have hated each other.”  
  
“And makes you think there isn’t the potential for that now?” She lifts up her glass and they toast mockingly, still surveying each other with equal suspicion.  


***

By the time Noé comes back from Moreau (who Noé had told several times that they weren’t going to let the Rangers, or ‘bad vampires’ as Moreau called them, kill him), he finds Vanitas asleep, facing the wall. His cape, now the same colour as the stone walls, is curled around him. Noé grins at the sight. As suspicious as Vanitas tried to be, he obviously trusts Domi and the Rangers enough to fall asleep. Noé _will_ tease him about this.  
  
“How are you doing, _mon chéri?”_ Domi says from behind him, having taken off her Ranger armour. Now that it’s just the two of them, she’s dropped her mask and he can see that her face is lined with sadness, her shoulders slumped under the weight of an invisible burden. He comes up to her and brings her into an embrace; the years may have passed, but she’s still the same old Domi to him. She hugs him back, a bit tight perhaps but he doesn’t complain.  
  
“It feels strange to think- to _know_ that he’s gone. Nothing feels the same. Nothing feels _right._ I don’t think I’m making any sense.”  
  
“No, I understand,” She says, “I understand.”  
  
“How’s Veronica?” He’s never met the older De Sade but he’s heard enough stories from both Domi and Louis to know that he doesn’t really want to meet her.  
  
“Bad. She’s taken to using a Grimoire,” He stiffens at the words, “Yes. I know. I’d always called her crazy as a joke but now, that might have changed.”  
  
“It’ll be alright. We can change it. We can make things right again.”  
  
“Right, by destroying the Book,” She doesn’t let go of him but pulls back enough so they can see each other’s faces, “Is everything alright with Vincent?” They both look over at him but he’s still fast asleep.  
  
“It’s fine. He’s a bit…difficult, but I can handle him.”  
  
“You know that’s not what I mean.” She gives him a pointed look and he sighs.  
  
“I think the Book is starting to take hold in his mind. He hasn’t used it in a while but I see him reach more often for it in danger than his daggers, as if it’s his first instinct to use them in battle. He snaps out of it on his own but there’ll be a day when he doesn’t. All I can hope for is that it tries to work more on Moreau than him or I,” He sighs and lies his head on her shoulder. They stay like that for a moment, simply basking in each other’s presence, “You smell nice Domi.”  
  
“Oh my, someone’s hungry,” She notes, laughter silvery, “I suppose your Vincent hasn’t been sharing then.”  
  
“Domi-” He starts in reproach but she interrupts him.  
  
“Well then Noé, do you want to drink my blood?” She takes a step back and pulls her hair back.  
  
“Yes. I do Domi.” He tells her, feeling his fangs elongate in anticipation.  
  
“Then, _mon chéri,_ take it all.” She says, tilting her head back. He leans in and feels her pulse flutter under the skin of her throat. He bites down, softly, and starts to drink. Just like he remembers, Domi’s blood really is good. It’s sweet and reminds him of tarte tatin and of home, of summer days when Louis, Domi and he made flower crowns outside and laughed, simple children that they were.  
  
Unbeknownst to them, Vanitas’ eyes are open. He holds the Book to his chest, listening. 


	11. A New Threat

“I can’t believe this little-” Chloé’s mutterings become a whisper so no-one can arrest her for slandering the king. She shoves various objects into her bag, some Olivier is certain she doesn’t even need. The Chasseurs watch her pace back and forth, carefully stepping out of the way when she passes, “Protecting everyone, protecting everyone, does he know what he’s doing?”  
  
“He thinks he does.” Jean-Jacques, the only one trying to calm her down, says. They’re all frustrated but none as much as Chloé. After having announced his decision to Chloé and Jeanne, Loki had come back into the throne hall, closely followed by Chloé berating him.  


***

“Do you really think the Oriflammes’ Fortress will help you?” She’d asked. She’d looked like she wanted to hit him with her staff. The only thing stopping her from doing so had been the presence of the guards in the room. If only Loki had stayed in his quarters, she would have done so with pleasure.  
  
“It’s helped all of my ancestors, and it will help me too. My people are suffering right now and this is the only way to help them.”  
  
“If you want to help your people, you should go to the De Sade Regency and join forces with them,” Roland had pointed out, standing up, “Then we’ll be able to lay out a proper offensive plan against the Blue Moon.” Loki had raised a haughty eyebrow.  
  
“With Veronica De Sade as regent? I think not. It would be easier to wait it out.”  
  
“Do you think Vanitas of the Blue Moon will spare you just because you won’t participate? We are at war, put your pride and petty, political squabbles aside and ask for help!” Olivier had cried.  
  
“I won’t take advice from an uncrowned king.”  
  
“Then listen to the advice of three paladins.” Astolfo had said from the bench, making them jump. He’d been so uncharacteristically silent they’d forgotten about him.  
  
“At least think about the people! What about your family?” Roland had appealed. Unfortunately for him, it was the wrong move.  
  
“I would have thought you’d understand my actions considering your family lives here, Monsieur Fortis.” Roland had frozen then sunk back down onto the bench. His mouth had hung open slightly and he’d been quick to bury his face in his hands. Clearly, he hadn’t been thinking about that. Olivier had sidled closer to him and put his arm around his shoulders. Angry and defeated, the Chasseurs could only glare as Loki had walked out and announced to his people that they’d be heading to the Oriflammes Fortress for safety.  
  
“It’s going to be a massacre.” Astolfo had said.  


***

“Are you leaving?” Jeanne asks from the doorway. Messengers sent by Loki to warn the rest of the kingdom of their decision mill around, preparing to leave. She navigates through them and gets to their little group.  
  
“Loki’s plan is folly and he needs to see it. Jean-Jacques and I are going to find his brother, the more reasonable one,” She sniffs, “At least you’ll have reinforcements.”  
  
“I’ll go prepare horses.” Jeanne turns to leave but Astolfo grabs her sleeve.  
  
“There’s no need.” Jean-Jacques smiles and his face ripples, briefly showing six eyes and sharp teeth. She blinks rapidly several times.  
  
“Alright.” She says, tone unfazed.  
  
“It should take us three days I believe to find Luca and reach the Fortress. We should arrive around dawn.” Chloé says.  
  
“Excellent idea Chloé.” Loki says, walking up to them.  
  
“Oh, have you changed your mind? Is that why you’re here?” She asks, not even bothering to rein in her annoyance. Loki’s eyes narrow.  
  
“No, I haven’t. But I wanted to talk to you before you go.” He jerks his head to back towards the castle, indicating he wants that conversation to be private. She sighs and follows him away. Jean-Jacques watches them go closely, frowning darkly at the king’s back.  
  
“That’s not good.” Astolfo says aloud what they’re all thinking. Jean-Jacques lets out a sound of agreement.  
  
“So, um, do you need a saddle or not?” Jeanne asks Jean-Jacques.  
  
“Oh no, that’s not how it works.” He answers and starts explaining the Beast to her. The Chasseurs quickly ignore that conversation but Olivier notices Roland’s eyes staying a moment too long on Jeanne. Normally Olivier wouldn’t be too bothered by Roland’s flirting but this is the Hellfire witch and also like a sister to Loki; there might be an actual risk to his dallying this time. Upon catching Olivier staring, Roland sends him a smile and Olivier’s eyebrow twitches.  
  
After about half an hour, Chloé comes back. She looks tired and her eyes are dark with worry but she remains mute when they ask her what happened. Loki is nowhere to be seen at the moment.  
  
“Have we got everything?” She asks Jean-Jacques, tone somewhat brusque. He frowns but nods anyway, “Are you ready to leave?”  
  
“Yes,” Jean-Jacques gives them all a nod, “We’ll see you in three days.” He shifts into the Beast with ease and Jeanne blinks some more at the sight. Chloé hoists herself up onto his back with their bags.  
  
“Keep hope in your hearts, that’s the only thing that’ll get us through this,” She advises, “And stop Loki from getting himself killed.” Jean-Jacques bounds out of the stables, making everyone throw themselves against the walls to avoid him. They quickly disappear from view. Olivier feels a pain in his chest; Chloé isn’t dead this time but it still feels like she’s left his life again.  
  
Jeanne stares for a moment, still awed, before informing them that they’ll leave in an hour or two. She hurries back inside the castle, leaving the Chasseurs alone. They exit the bustling stables and find themselves standing in front of the castle, lost. It’s been a while since they’d had nothing to do.  
  
“My family,” Roland says after a moment, “I want to find my family.” Olivier nods, he wants to do so too. The Fortis family had raised him as their own for about a year and a half before the Chasseurs had taken Roland and him in shortly after their tenth birthdays. Having nothing better to do, Astolfo follows.  
  
It doesn’t take long for them to find the Fortis by asking around in Carbunculus. Two of Roland’s siblings are preparing their horse and cart whilst the other two and his mother bustle around their house, packing. Upon seeing them, Roland’s mother gasps and almost lets go of what she’s holding. Lower lip trembling, she staggers towards them and embraces Roland and Olivier. Olivier stiffens but lets it happen anyway. Roland’s mother leans back and gazes deeply at them for a while before finally letting go. Olivier has never considered himself as part of the Fortis family but something in him does warm at being here with them again. Had he never stayed with them, he would have never met Roland and as much as he likes to complain about Roland, he has to admit that a life without the man would lose half of the light it possesses now. And judging how dark these times seem to be becoming, he needs as much light as possible.  
  
“I’m so glad you’re here. Seeing your faces again is already enough of a gift.” She says. Olivier doesn’t consider himself much of an emotional type but there’s an uncomfortable lump in his throat and a stinging at the back of his eyes. Oh no, he’s not allowed to even let his eyes water. Astolfo, as the brat he is, would never let him live it down. Roland grins at him in that cheeky, knowing way of his and slings an arm around his shoulder. Olivier lets him without grumbling this time.  
  
“How are you? How’s everyone?” Roland asks.  
  
“Doing our best. Preparing,” She sighs and then looks up at them, sternness replacing the concern, “The decision the King’s taking (she pauses) is there going to be a war?”  
  
“The chances are low. And even if there is one, we’ll win, without a doubt.” Roland lies, his usual cheer acting as a mask. His mother smiles, comforted. Olivier pulls away, blood boiling.  
  
 _Calm,_ he thinks, _I need to stay calm. Breathe in and out-_ It isn’t working. The fact that Roland, constantly chiding him as if he were three because he acts as LeSage more often than not, is currently putting on a mask- the hypocrisy of it all burns. Olivier won’t hesitate to admit (maybe not aloud) that Roland is one of the better parts of his life but they have their differences. They need to talk about this but now isn’t the time.  
  
“I need to go back,” He says, “I left Hauteclaire at the castle and I can’t let it get carried away by someone else.” He’s also left Louis’ sword but that would be too long to explain.  
  
“All grown up and yet you still lose your things.” She chides but tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear for him. Roland laughs and Olivier turns away. As he starts to leave, he hears her ask who ‘this young man is’. It looks like Astolfo, who’d been hanging back in the shadows, is going to be on the brunt end of her mother hen attitude. It’ll do him some good, he needs more people who love him. Olivier isn’t already a big fan of the Chasseurs and their work ethics but Astolfo spends a lot of time with the Dwarf Chasseurs and they take the hat when it comes to being intolerant. Olivier says he doesn’t care as much about Astolfo as Roland does (which is a feat Olivier doubts anyone can surpass) but he does spend a substantial amount of time worrying about the boy.  
  
The closer he gets to the castle, the more activity there is, a thrum of life that hadn’t been there a day ago. It’s strange to think how easily scales can be tipped and how easily a kingdom can be changed.  
  
Olivier heads inside the main hall and finds it abuzz with even more movement as servants mill around, packing what’s necessary and putting aside what it isn’t. He spots Jeanne rifling through a chest and pull out a sword. He can tell, as he approaches, that the blade is sharp and well taken care of. She takes a moment to collect herself and then tries for a few lunges and swings. Just as he reaches her, she turns and the sword misses him by a fraction of an inch. They both freeze up.  
  
“Apologies Monseigneur.” She panics, a strong blush rising to her cheeks, “I meant no disrespect!” His gaze shifts to the chest, sees another sword, and he grabs it for himself. He touches the tips of their blades together before readying himself in a sparring position.  
  
“En garde!” He says and attacks. Her eyes narrow and she blocks his blow with ease, slipping quickly into her warrior’s stance. She retaliates, trying to get underneath his guard.  
  
Their blades clash together, matching each other’s’ blow for blow. It’s a deadly dance of cold steel and invisible sparks, their long hair flowing with each movement.  
  
“You’re strong, Lady Jeanne,” He remarks, “As well as close to the King. Are you a general? A solider?” Her face tightens and her strikes intensify.  
  
“No, I’m not part of the army,” She frowns, “But please call me Jeanne.”  
  
“Call me Olivier then. But how come? Your talent is immense.” She opens her mouth to answer but Loki walks in at the same moment (Olivier frowns at the sight) and calls:  
  
“Jeanne? What are you doing? Could you come here?” He doesn’t say ‘please’ because it’s Loki and moves to the throne. A flicker of annoyance passes over her face, quickly followed by guilt. She stops fighting, her whirlwind of hair falling back around her shoulders, and shoves the sword back in the chest. Olivier imitates her.  
  
“That’s why.” Jeanne says, hikes up her skirts and goes to Loki. He sees her freeze up upon reaching him. He gets closer under the guise of grabbing his weapons; fortunately, they’re still there. From here, he can get a good look at Loki. His stomach clenches with dread.  
  
Loki’s eyes have changed again. Instead of one pupil, both now look like they’re leaking and his originally deformed eye now has a pool of black at the bottom of it. It’s been what? a few hours since he was freed from Naenia’s possession? And yet, he’s already changing. Is he already losing control? Jean-Jacques wasn’t, but maybe since he’s older, he has better control. Or is it the stress of everything happening that’s causing this? Maybe with time, it’ll fade.  
  
Loki sees him watching and grins, as if it’s all very amusing to him, but Olivier sees a new tenseness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. What is Loki planning?  


***

By the time they ride out, it is the beginning of the afternoon. They file out of Carbunculus in a long column, some on horse, some in carts, some unlucky ones having to walk. It is fortunate enough that the Oriflammes Kingdom is the kingdom of horses, so that last category is the smallest one.  
  
Loki rides far ahead of them, at the head of their column. Olivier had told Astolfo and Roland of Loki’s change when they’d come back and they’d both nodded, mentally preparing themselves for the moment Loki turns again. Loki has already started to take pre-emptive measure, having asked everyone in the castle to revoke their loyalty to him. The theory was sound, if _Sol Invictus_ could manipulate those loyal to him, doing the opposite could change that. Of course, that’s only a theory and could be worth nothing. For all they knew, _Sol Invictus_ could manipulate people if they’d sworn loyalty once. At least the Chasseurs, and normally Jeanne too, would be safe from his influence.  
  
Jeanne walks with the Chasseurs, having relinquished her horse to help an elderly couple. They move slow enough for her to stay at their height at a leisurely pace but Olivier still had offered for her to ride with him. She’d shaken her head and refused. He supposes vampires don’t get tired as quickly as humans do, he’s jealous. She converses happily with them and Olivier even catches Astolfo almost smiling once or twice. He exchanges glances with Roland who looks ecstatic at such improvements; Olivier feels proud too.  
  
However, it still bugs him that Jeanne isn’t going to fight. He understands why Loki won’t have her fight as the Hellfire witch, the stigma behind the title would get her killed. But as a simple vampire, she’s a powerful ally and in this war, they need those. Loki isn’t excluding those close to him from the war either, Luca’s head of the cavalry after all. Is he scared of her lacking control? It would be a bit rich coming from someone who’s on the verge of becoming a curse bearer.  
  
Shouts come from up ahead as a scout return. Loki had sent three to observe the hilly area before them but they can only spot one and no sign of his friends coming back.  
  
“Sounds like trouble.” Astolfo says and they all exchange a heavy glance. Olivier extends an arm to Jeanne and she accepts it this time, swinging herself onto the horse behind him. They separate from the column and overtake it to join Loki’s level. They reach it just in time to hear the words ‘wargs’, ‘killed’ and ‘enemy scouts’. Wargs are dangerous business, giant wolves from the North that, upon considering it, aren’t that dissimilar from Jean-Jacques’ Beast form; Olivier hopes they aren’t as lethal, having never met one.  
  
“How many?” Loki asks, raising his hand so everyone behind stops.  
  
“Can’t say for sure. Maybe two dozen? More?” The scout answers. He’s pale and blood trickles from a wound at his temple where an arrow grazed him. The close encounter with death has left him shaking.  
  
“Alright, thank you,” Loki says and notices them. Olivier finds the weight of his mismatched eyes to be very unnerving, “I suppose you’ll be participating then?” They assent and he nods before ordering for fifty of his soldiers to follow into the attack. He doubts there’s an enemy army waiting for them on the other side of the hill and so he orders the rest of them to make their way to the Fortress, “Jeanne, you go with them.” Her eyes blaze with anger but realising she’s just dead weight without her own horse and that it’s politically incorrect to argue with her king, she relents and dismounts from Olivier’s horse.  
  
“Good luck.” She says and Olivier nods at her in thanks.  
  
Their group of fighters crests up the hill and look. Down below, they can see several wargs and their riders. The one nearest to the cliff seems to be biting at the body of one of the scouts like it’s an oversized chew toy.  
  
Everyone unsheathes their weapons and at Loki’s signal, Hama raises a hunting horn to his lips and sounds it. The noise startles the wargs, allowing them a few precious seconds of surprise as they ride down in a wave. The Oriflammes’ soldiers let out a furious war cry and the Chasseurs join their voices to it. They descend onto the riders and the battle starts. Steel clashes against steel with fangs and claws joining the mix. Blood starts to fly.  
  
More of the wargs pour out from over the hills, trying to encircle them, and Olivier realises that the riders are both human and vampires. Some, perhaps, could even be dhampirs. He wonders how Faustina or Vanitas of the Blue Moon convinced them to rally to their cause, how desperate these people might be. _It doesn’t matter,_ he supposes as Hauteclaire slices through fur and flesh, _because we’re on different sides._  
  
The moment of distraction costs him as a warg’s teeth slide cleanly into his horse’s flank. It gives a shrill neigh and collapses onto its side, Olivier only narrowly avoiding having it land on him and breaking some of his bones. The impact with the ground still knocks the air out of him. A twisted face leers down at him and then there’s the blinding white pain of the warg’s jaw snapping down onto his elbow. The bone snaps.  
  
It isn’t his sword arm however and he slashes out with Hauteclaire, flicking the switch and burrowing the rotating spikes into the rider’s side. They scream but the sound is lost amongst the din of the fight. He didn’t stab deep enough, not enough for it to be lethal, but when he tries again, the warg starts to run, dragging him across the ground by his broken arm, and messing up his aim.  
  
“For crying out loud-!” He curses and in what he believes is the dumbest move he’s made in a long while, he plunges Hauteclaire into the warg’s side. It snarls furiously and bucks up, its rider tumbling off, but it doesn’t let go and keeps on charging. Olivier only has the time to see the drop before they plummet off of the cliff.  
  
The fall lasts for an eternity and he hears the sound of rushing water from the river below getting louder and louder. The warg hits the ground first, its bones crunching and its stomach bursting open. It had let go of Olivier the moment they’d fallen off and he lands on top of it, his landing partly cushioned by the still-warm innards. The impact of it all still has his consciousness start to fade. His breathy shaky, he finds himself sliding off of the ruptured and broken body. Icy water laps at his feet and his chest spasms at the cold. He manages to pull Hauteclaire out and closes his eyes. The river sweeps his body away.  


***

Roland is the first one to notice Olivier is missing.  
  
The battle dies down quickly, the scouts being outnumbered by them. It’s always been tradition for them to judge who gets bragging rights after such an event and Roland, certain he’s won with a body count of seven riders and three Wargs, turns to find the space where Olivier should have been empty. His face falls and panic rises in his chest, his heart starting to hammer so fast in his chest he fears it might beat right out.  
  
He dismounts and starts to search through the bodies, trying to find Olivier’s whilst also hoping he doesn’t. He feels like he’s going to be sick. Astolfo rides up to him, realises what he’s doing and goes very pale. As much as he likes to pretend he doesn’t like Olivier, he cares for him.  
  
Out of all of their soldiers, very few have died. All of the enemy scouts have been eliminated though some of their wargs have fled. Or at least that’s what Roland thinks until he hears a gurgling laugh. It’s the kind of laugh he knows from years of experience that is made when on death’s bed and spitting out blood.  
  
“What’s wrong pretty boy?” He looks down and finds a dying vampire woman. She smirks at him despite the blood trickling out of the side of her mouth. Her left arm and leg are twisted in a way indicating that they are broken and he recognises the wound in her side as being by Hauteclaire. No other weapon he knows could cause such a jagged tear, “Lost your friend?” Any trace of empathy could have had for her is gone in an instant and his face goes cold.  
  
“Where is he?”  
  
“He’s the one with the braid right?” She laughs again.  
  
“Tell me and I’ll end your suffering. You can heal but it won’t be enough with those injuries. You’ll be in agony for hours.” He gives her his calmest smile, the one he knows Olivier can’t stand because it’s his fakest.  
  
“Had a bit of a tussle with him,” She nods towards the cliff edge and his stomach plummets, “He fell right off.” Her sentence ends in a gurgle as he plunges Durandal into her chest. Her body spasms for an instant and then, slowly, she turns to dust. He slings Durandal onto his back and finds Astolfo staring at him, having witnessed the whole exchange. He dismounts too and carefully, they move to the cliff’s edge.  
  
A river roars down below and they can tell that something brown and furry, most probably a warg, lies there. No sign of Olivier.  
  
“That doesn’t mean he’s dead.” Astolfo says, trying his best to be reassuring. Roland nods though dread still curdles in his stomach. Olivier’s a good swimmer but with the weight of his weapons, who knows if he didn’t get dragged down?  
  
“Apologies,” Loki says, having understood the situation, “But we must continue.” Roland clenches his fists, conflicted. It’s his duty as a Chasseur, as a son and as a brother to protect everyone; Olivier is trained to be able to take care of himself. But Olivier’s his best friend. And something more in his heart.  
  
“No!” Astolfo snaps, “I’m tired of losing people, I won’t let him go. I’ll bring his body back if I have to.” He grabs the reins of his horse and hoists himself up, “Roland? Are you coming?” Roland throws a look at the direction his family went in and climbs back onto his horse.  
  
“I’m coming.” He says, a look of grim determination replacing his previous expression. Astolfo clicks his tongue and their horses start, leaving a dumbfounded Loki behind.  


***

When Olivier opens his eyes again, he finds himself sitting on a large slab of marbled stone, like a tomb. Someone sits at either side of him. He knows them yet can’t place their names or faces.  
  
“Am I dead?” He asks. The one of his left laughs, throwing their head back.  
  
“Not yet, fortunately. _This_ (they gesture at the space around them which seems shrouded in mist) is a space in between.”  
  
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”  
  
“You should.” The one on the right says, voice stern in such a familiar way that it almost hurts that he can’t place it.  
  
“But _I’m_ not,” The left one says, throwing a sharp grin his way, “Which makes me just a figment of your imagination. Something you’re holding back because you have regrets.” But what does that make the one on his right? A ghost?  
  
“I’m sorry,” He blurts out, not sure to which one he’s speaking to, “I could have- should have-”  
  
“You couldn’t save me,” The voices say at the same time. The left one, his imagination, continues, “Not in a million years. Not then, not now,” They nudge him with their shoulder, “I made my choices. You made yours. And now, we have to both live (they bark a laugh) with them.”  
  
“I failed you.”  
  
“You saved the others. And you’re going to save more. You’ve got a good future ahead of you.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“Trust me,” They squeeze his shoulder, “You’ll make the right choices.”  
  
“And what if I don’t?” What if now that you’ve told me, I make the wrong ones believing they’re right?” They laugh again.  
  
“Quit worrying,” The one on the right, the ghost, says, “You’ll be coming to me for guidance very soon anyway. Now, you need to go before your body gives up completely.” They frown at him but he has the impression that that’s their own way of expressing a smile. They push him off the tomb. He falls, tumbling through darkness, and when he wakes up, it’s to himself submerged in water and someone tugging him out of the water. He stretches a hand out towards the sun.  
  
“Louis? Aude?” He asks. There’s no response.  


***

When they see Olivier in the river, Astolfo’s and Roland’s immediate thought is that he’s dead. His eyes are closed and his hair has come out of its braid, framing his face artfully like a halo of sorts. Hauteclaire lies on his chest, both of his hands wrapped around the hilt. One of them doesn’t seem quite right. He looks like a martyr or an angel. Because he is an angel. Roland’s angel at least.  
  
Ever so slowly, they make their way to the bank upon which Olivier has drifted. Just before they reach him, his eyes flutter open and his uninjured hand reaches towards the sky. He looks- _annoyed_ at being alive because of course he is. Roland resists the urge to laugh.  
  
Olivier sees them and puts his uninjured hand down. It’s a wonder he managed to stay afloat the whole time despite being unconscious. Roland dismounts and drags him more onto land. He’s freezing and not just because of the water. Roland feels an unnatural kind of magic is at work, is that what helped him survive?  
“Are you alright?” Astolfo asks, kneeling at his side.  
  
“My elbow’s broken,” Olivier answer with a wince then sighs, “You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you.”  
  
“We should be saying the same to you,” Roland scolds, “Don’t ever do that again.” He rips off the bottom of his black robe and makes a makeshift sling for him. Olivier wonders how their clothes managed to look this pristine _this_ long; he wishes he could say the same for his body. Astolfo sheathes Hauteclaire for him; he notices something looks off with it, that’s to be examined later.  
  
“Are there any dead?” He asks.  
  
“A few,” says Astolfo, “But not too many. They fought well. Loki wanted us to set off without you but we abandoned him.”  
  
“How chivalrous,” He remarks sarcastically though he’s smiling. He passes his uninjured hand in his hair; it’s going to be a mess to untangle, something he isn’t looking forwards to doing, “…I spoke to Louis.”  
  
“…What did he say?” Roland keeps his voice and expression as neutral as possible. The wound is still fresh and raw for them all.  
  
“That we’ll do fine.”  
  
“He’d better be right otherwise I’m punching him if we die.” Astolfo barks a laugh and just like that, the tension is broken. Roland looks proud and Olivier feels something similar too- Astolfo’s made a nice enough comment about a vampire. There was a point in time when they’d thought they’d never reach this. He’s been improving a lot recently.  
  
“I saw Aude too.” Astolfo looks confused at this but Roland’s face falls. Aude was Olivier’s older half-sister and took care of him when their parents died until she was mauled to death by a curse bearer when Olivier was seven. Those events were what lead Olivier to live with the Fortis family for a few years, being orphaned with nowhere to go. Roland remembers all too well the nightmares that had plagued him as he woke up screaming and crying; the only way to calm him down was to be next to him. Roland doesn’t think that’s exactly when he started pining but it certainly helped.  
  
He’s about to help Olivier mount onto his horse when Olivier flinches, as if he’s been struck. For a moment, Roland panics, thinking he’s jostled his broken elbow but then he looks and a laugh escapes his mouth. Olivier glares at him.  
  
“There’s a bat in your hair.” Roland says.  
  
“There’s a _what?”_  
  
“A bat.” Olivier opens his mouth, considers screaming upon realising how tangled his hair is now and closes his mouth. His hair is his pride and now both are in shambles.  
  
“Why is there a bat in my hair? Also, why are you standing there, get it out!” His voice rises at the end. Astolfo doesn’t do anything, the brat, but Roland’s hands are suddenly in his hair, gently pulling and tugging as he frees the bat. Olivier’s scalp tingles at the touch. Astolfo gives him a knowing look and Olivier glares at him.  
  
Roland lets go and the bat flaps into the air. Strange, what is a bat doing here in broad daylight? It circles around their head before swooping back down in front of them. A little bell is tied to it and it carries a scroll. Astolfo holds out a hand tentatively and it flits to him, close enough that he can reach out and grab the letter it’s holding. He unrolls it and starts to read. His eyes widen in shock.  
  
“It’s from the dhams.” He says. They urge him to read it.  
  
 _“To Chloé and Jean-Jacques or Astolfo, Olivier and Roland or, alternatively, all of you together_  
  
 _This is Riche writing. Dante and I are safe and sound in the Silver Woods but we have some worrying news (the bat is mine by the way, it’s friendly)._  
  
 _The first is that someone new has arrived at the Silver Tower. He wears a large eyepatch over the right side of his face and he has long red hair. I don’t know if you know him but he seems like trouble. Faustina let him in very quickly, he seems important to her plans. We don’t know what he’s told her but by the time I’m writing this, she’s started rallying her army. Johann estimates there are ten thousand soldiers. I don’t know where you all are but be prepared for them because I don’t doubt that they mean war. That’s our second problem._  
  
 _Our third problem is Johann. I’m sorry Chloé but he’s (underlined three times) very hard to convince. His loyalty to his community and his disdain for the rest of the world are forces to be reckoned with. However, Dante thinks we’re slowly getting around to him and that soon enough, we’ll get him to join our side._  
  
 _Please survive,_  
  
 _Riche (and Dante).”_  
  
“It’s nice to hear from them again,” Astolfo starts after finishing the letter, “But Chloé relies on some very unreliable people.” He tries handing the bat back the letter but it refuses to take it and flits around his head instead. It must have already passed Chloé and Jean-Jacques. It circles him one last time and then flies away, leaving for the safety and comfort of the Silver Woods, back to Riche.  
  
“I believe that includes us too and not just that Johann fellow,” Roland says, “But the news of that army is worrisome.”  
  
“We don’t have ten thousand men.” Olivier shakes his head. They have less than half and that’s counting the non-soldiers. Against this army of curse bearers, normal vampires, humans and experiments (who knows what Faustina has cooked up since) they stand no chance. Against so much hatred, what can they do? “This isn’t going to be a war. It’ll be a siege.”  


***

The sun is about to set by the time they reach the Oriflammes Fortress. It’s an imposing structure built at the far end of a gorge, naturally protected by the gorge’s walls. The Fortress is tiered, rising in height. Olivier remembers from the little he knows that it’s situated above the Glittering Caves which can act as a tunnel to escape if the Fortress is overwhelmed.  
  
They’re let inside easily, their faces being recognisable enough, and pass through the tiers. There are more people here than what Carbunculus held, Loki’s messengers seems to have been able to spread the word quickly. Roland spots his family and nods at them as he passes but doesn’t stop, continuing to ride up until they reach the highest tier, where Loki should be. He’s inside the main hall here and they don’t even bother with knocking before opening the doors, trusting their horses to someone outside the gates.  
  
“You’re alive?” Loki asks upon seeing them. Behind him, Jeanne beams.  
  
“Unfortunately, we come bearing bad news.” When Olivier finishes explaining, Loki pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a seat. Jeanne uses that moment to take a look at Olivier’s elbow. He blanches and bites his lip to avoid crying out in pain as she carefully manipulates it. She quickly concludes that unless Chloé heals it, he’ll have to wait. He almost asks her to do it then remembers he isn’t meant to know she’s a witch and shuts his mouth. Besides, she might not even know how to heal someone with magic.  
  
“Ten thousand? We’re clearly outnumbered _but_ in here, their ways of access are limited. They’ll most probably try to get through the battlements but if they come one by one, it’ll be easier,” Loki turns to one of his generals, “I want anyone capable of carrying a weapon prepared for battle. For the moment being, we’ll mostly need archers.”  
  
“Yes sir!” The man salutes him and leaves the room.  
  
“Jeanne, go tell all civilians to go down to the caves. I’ll need you to take care of them and to lead them out if all hope is lost.”  
  
“Loki, I can fight!” She protests, “There are others who can lead them!”  
  
“Do as I say, Jeanne,” He levels her with an icy gaze. Trembling with barely contained rage, she resists the urge to storm out. She’s going to see this meeting to the end at least. Olivier sighs and Loki turns to him, eyes judging his sorry state, “Can you fight?”  
  
“Of course I can.”  
  
“Good, we’ll need everyone we can get.”  
  
“Then why don’t you allow Jeanne to participate?” Astolfo asks.  
  
“Don’t-” Jeanne says as a warning.  
  
“You don’t know the circumstances behind my decisions.” Loki snaps back, his usual infuriating smile still in place.  
  
“Actually we do. Chloé told us.” It’s a good thing there’s no-one else in the room because at Astolfo’s words, Jeanne and Loki both go very pale and he clutches at the armrests of his chair. There’s the audible cracking sound of wood splintering beneath his fingers but he composes himself.  
  
“Then you understand why I’m doing this.”  
  
“I understand that all of your decisions are going to get us killed.” Astolfo snaps and is the one to storm out first. Roland and Olivier follow closely. Jeanne throws Loki one last torn look and then turns and walks out.  
  
Alone, Loki sighs, his smile fading, and tries to figure out how everything has gone so wrong. Jeanne’s parents killed _his_ parents, condemning Jeanne to a life of secrecy or death. Then his uncle, his mentor, the one who raised them betrays him and condemns Loki to a curse bearer’s fate. Luca is gone, Jeanne resents him and he is all alone. Loki clutches his hand to his chest. Red sparks flutter out from his fingertips. 


	12. The Waiting

“Is anything new happening?” Riche asks. It’s been a few hours since she’s sent away her bat and she’s _bored._ Since having spotted the new hustle and bustle of Faustina’s army, Johann has left them in favour of conspiring with the rest of the dhampirs on what to do. Knowing Johann, the decision is most probably going to do nothing and watch it all happen. He’s at least been nice enough to lend them a spyglass and Dante and she having been taking turns in looking through it.  
  
“Nope. Your turn.” Dante passes the spyglass to her and she lifts it up. Like Dante said, nothing new. Who knew preparing for a war could be so mundane? She wouldn’t have thought so back in Averoigne. She wouldn’t have thought of a lot of things back in Averoigne where her biggest worry had been accidentally setting fire to her grandfather’s crops. That wasn’t so long ago but it feels like an age. Is this what Chloé feels like in her daily life? Or does she feel the opposite? Like no time goes by when centuries do?  
  
She hears the jingling of a bell by her ear and the flap of leathery wings as Dante’s bat approaches her. It’s a very affectionate creature and despite how reluctant they were at first to have bats, they’ve both grown attached to theirs. Riche already misses her bat and Dante’s bat seems to agree as it plops itself onto her head. She lets it, now used to its shenanigans, and focuses on her task.  


***

Ruthven finds the Tower of the Sun to be a sinister place. Faustina is its sole inhabitant and so it is shrouded in a constant silence that disturbs him. He’d thought that she’d dismissed the servants so at Carbunculus Castle whilst possessing Loki to avoid raising more suspicion but it seems that she lives in permanent silence.  
  
“Your knowledge as an artificer is more than valuable August.” She tells him as he walks inside of the room she keeps her Grimoire. Her back is turned to him and he knows his footsteps are as quiet as a cat’s, having scared people all over Carbunculus accidentally, but she’s a witch so that doesn’t surprise him. Despite her sudden expulsion from Loki’s body, she appears to be fine physically. He can’t speak about her mental state however; the failure of her plan and Chloé’s promotion to the same status must be upsetting. He supposes it is.  
  
“I have worked with the Oriflammes family for years, I believe it’s safe to say that I know more about it than Loki does,” He reaches into his sleeves and brings out a blank page, “I believe this is yours.” She looks over her shoulder and, seeing what it is, gestures at the plinth dismissively. He takes the Grimoire from it, ignoring the unpleasant flash of the blue moon in his mind, and places the page inside of it. It melds with the Grimoire’s binding as if it had never been ripped out in the first place. He puts it back on the plinth hurriedly and wipes his palms on his robes as if getting rid of something diseased or tainted. The Grimoire’s page may have been the primary means for his communicating with Faustina but that doesn’t mean he enjoyed using it. He’s glad he doesn’t have to use it anymore.  
  
“Are you certain this will be enough?” She asks. He goes over to her desk and carefully moves away a candle from it all. Faustina may be a millennia-old witch but she can act surprisingly like a child at times. Jeanne was like that when times were more peaceful. They were both the opposite of Chloé who looked like a child but definitely wasn’t one at mind. Ruthven gazes down at what she’s made, a fine, dark powder that could blow them all sky high had that candle been closer.  
  
“You’ve made more than enough.” He says.  
  
“Excellent. Prepare the rest, I shall see to the army.” Robes swishing around her, she walks out. He waits for the doors to close behind her before turning his attention to the explosives. She has made more than enough. In fact, she’s made twice the amount of what she actually needs to lead her attack on the Oriflammes Fortress. But Ruthven won’t tell her that, he has his own motivations after all, and if accomplishing them involves lying to Faustina…Well, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. Yet.  


***

When the army starts marching out, twenty thousand feet stomping and shaking the ground, Dante and Riche realise they might just be in trouble. Their observation point is at the edge of the Silver Woods and if they can spot Faustina on her balcony without the spyglass, she can most probably spot them with her magic. And neither of them wants to meet her. Hoping their clothes are dark enough to blend in with the shadows and allow them to pass unnoticed, they slink back into the safety of the Silver Woods.  
  
“Can you find Johann?” Dante asks his winged companion and it flits around his head once before flying deeper into the forest. The bats of the Silver Woods seem to always know where each other are so Dante really hopes Johann’s bat is sticking to him right now. Otherwise who knows where they’ll end up?  
  
They do find him in the end though he looks busy, speaking with other dhams. It’s strange to see so many in one place. There were several in Averoigne but not as many as there are here. Dante and Riche weren’t very close to those in Averoigne and sometimes it felt like they were the only dhams in the world. It’s jarring now, to see such a large and thriving community.  
  
“What is it?” Johann asks them, looking vaguely impatient as he does so.  
  
“They’ve started to move out. All of them.” Dante says, gesturing back towards the Tower of the Sun.  
  
“Interesting.” He answers and turns away, as if to dismiss them.  
  
“What are we going to do?” Riche prompts him, digging for answers..  
  
“Nothing, this doesn’t concern us. Actually,” A thought hits Johann, “Faustina’s guard should be down so you two should be able to slip by unnoticed and head back to your home. Follow me, I’ll guide you to the edge of the forest.” Dante and Riche exchange a worried glance, they have no true home to go to and this isn’t the mission Chloé assigned to them. They still follow.  
  
“Faustina’s guard is down, it’s the best time to attack. Dhams don’t get affected by magic as much, we could overpower her.” Dante says. Johann is quiet but his bat tugs on his sleeve, in a different direction. Curious, he turns from their original path.  
  
“Come on Johann, _please.”_ Riche says, wringing her hands.  
  
“Vampires and humans don’t care about us. Why should we care about them?” Johann asks with scorn, “Why should we fight in _their_ war?” And then Riche explodes.  
  
“How do you want them to accept you if you leave them to die?” She yells, her fists clenched, “Do you think Vanitas of the Blue Moon will leave you alive just because you stayed out of it? How do you think everyone else feels? Vanitas had quarrel with their ancestors, not them, yet they have to pay. So what if your parents abandoned you? You can’t judge the rest of the world based on that! _Our_ family hates us too but we don’t let that hatred become us. We thought that outside of Averoigne, everyone would want our heads but we were wrong. We have friends who are risking their lives to save this world despite one of them having every reason to want to destroy it! They’re dying for us! One of them died for us! So please,” Her voice breaks, becoming wet with tears, “Don’t give up on them.”  
  
Johann is quiet for a long, long while and she stares at the ground, not daring to look up lest he go and hit her. After a minute or two, she gives into her curiosity and looks up. Dante has been stunned into silence. Johann however, remains quiet for an entire other reason.  
  
Johann’s bat has brought them to the edge of the Silver Woods and they look down on the Parade. The remains of the trees chopped down to fuel Faustina’s forges litter the ground. There are bones amongst the branches. Dhams don’t dissolve completely into dust like vampires, they still leave bones behind. Johann’s fists are clenched and he shakes with barely restrained anger as he gazes at the destroyed parts of his home and of his people.  
  
“…Very well,” He says and his bat flits into the trees to alert the rest of the dham population, “We’ll join this war. But you two are going to help me.” 


End file.
